Original spelling, punctuation, capitalization and grammar have been preserved. At least I know it wasn't plagiarized.
How baby's got here. First you have to talk to the opposite sex, for about five mouths too a year. You also must really know a lot about this other person. That you say you're in love with. Before the big baby BOOM, for it to even work at All. You also have too have respect and trust for them. I'm telling you, if you Don't have that then teh god's and angles. Will know and, not bless you with This baby boy or girl which ever your hard desierer. What I mean by that is if you Do waht you're told and go by the rules. You may hve what ever you want in a Child from black, white or mixed to fat, skinny or tall but, you must do wha tyou Told like the god's said! Now the rules to the big BOOM! Lesson up females Because this is all you have too do in order to get the baby you been longing for. All you have to do is. Close your eyes put an arch in your back. Pleace your hands On his back. Now males this is all you have to do. It's a little more then what Your women had to do. Lesson up run your hands throw her long hair, Place your Hands around her waste. Tell her how sexy she smell and how soft her body is. Then you go in for the kill go to you can't go anymore. Go for about 45 min to an Hr for the long pashed kiss! BOTTA BING BOTTA BOOM! You have your baby Within 6 weeks.
Thursday, September 10, 2009
Sunday, July 26, 2009
Recycling: July 2007
I wrote this two years ago this month. I think I'll write a new one this year. Much has happened since then...
A few things I've learned in my (almost) 28 years. Some from personal experience, some from observation. I may have stolen some of these, but that doesn't mean they aren't true. Feel free to add to the list.
People who preface a majority of their statements with "honestly"—usually aren't.
Mass quantities of alcohol should not be consumed right before you end a relationship.
A good mother can tenderly hold your hair back while you vomit while at the same time berating you for coming home piss drunk.
If you think he's cheating, he probably is.
Sometimes love means taking a leap of faith and working out the details on the other side.
People who lie to you will lie about you.
Get both sides to a story before beginning a witch hunt.
It is possible—though by no means easy—to salvage a strong friendship from a failed relationship.
If a friend tells you everyone's secrets, she's telling yours, too.
People who enjoy the drama of being miserable deserve to be miserable.
It's a small world…especially in West Tennessee.
If you both truly want a good relationship, you will have one.
Usually it's better to be lonely than to have friends of convenience.
Some people can be convinced of anything, to the point that entire portions of their lives are fabricated by other people.
Trust first impressions, but only if based on both fact and intuition.
No one is THAT happy.
Few things in life are harder than role reversal between parents and children.
It takes two people to nurture a friendship. It is rarely the fault of just one person when it fails.
"Rock bottom" makes a poor foundation. Grab a limb on the way down.
Age doesn't matter in friendship, but it will in a relationship. It just may take a couple of decades before you notice.
Your soul mate should be your biggest fan, not just your biggest groupie. (metaphorically speaking… for most of you)
True friendships don't end, they just go on hiatus.
You'll never know whose life you'll touch, so try to touch them all.
Friends, like car keys, are often found in the most unlikely places.
Do not underestimate the power of angry tears over angry words.
Laughing while talking is often a sign of nervousness and sometimes a sign of dishonesty.
Humility is best served with a big bowl of cheese dip.
Be cautious with whom you discuss your marriage. Avoid those who tear down your spouse. Cherish those who aren't afraid to point our your faults, too.
Writing can be better and cheaper than therapy.
Dogs have the ability to understand our feelings better than we do.
If you have to convince yourself that you like it, you don't like it.
There isn't necessarily someone out there for everyone, romantically speaking. If you're lucky enough to find your "one"… Don't. Let. Go.
A few things I've learned in my (almost) 28 years. Some from personal experience, some from observation. I may have stolen some of these, but that doesn't mean they aren't true. Feel free to add to the list.
People who preface a majority of their statements with "honestly"—usually aren't.
Mass quantities of alcohol should not be consumed right before you end a relationship.
A good mother can tenderly hold your hair back while you vomit while at the same time berating you for coming home piss drunk.
If you think he's cheating, he probably is.
Sometimes love means taking a leap of faith and working out the details on the other side.
People who lie to you will lie about you.
Get both sides to a story before beginning a witch hunt.
It is possible—though by no means easy—to salvage a strong friendship from a failed relationship.
If a friend tells you everyone's secrets, she's telling yours, too.
People who enjoy the drama of being miserable deserve to be miserable.
It's a small world…especially in West Tennessee.
If you both truly want a good relationship, you will have one.
Usually it's better to be lonely than to have friends of convenience.
Some people can be convinced of anything, to the point that entire portions of their lives are fabricated by other people.
Trust first impressions, but only if based on both fact and intuition.
No one is THAT happy.
Few things in life are harder than role reversal between parents and children.
It takes two people to nurture a friendship. It is rarely the fault of just one person when it fails.
"Rock bottom" makes a poor foundation. Grab a limb on the way down.
Age doesn't matter in friendship, but it will in a relationship. It just may take a couple of decades before you notice.
Your soul mate should be your biggest fan, not just your biggest groupie. (metaphorically speaking… for most of you)
True friendships don't end, they just go on hiatus.
You'll never know whose life you'll touch, so try to touch them all.
Friends, like car keys, are often found in the most unlikely places.
Do not underestimate the power of angry tears over angry words.
Laughing while talking is often a sign of nervousness and sometimes a sign of dishonesty.
Humility is best served with a big bowl of cheese dip.
Be cautious with whom you discuss your marriage. Avoid those who tear down your spouse. Cherish those who aren't afraid to point our your faults, too.
Writing can be better and cheaper than therapy.
Dogs have the ability to understand our feelings better than we do.
If you have to convince yourself that you like it, you don't like it.
There isn't necessarily someone out there for everyone, romantically speaking. If you're lucky enough to find your "one"… Don't. Let. Go.
Recycling: February 2007
"Love Me to Sleep"
I know that when the morning comes I'll wake up, missing you again
But that's just a small price to pay
'Cause when we're making love tonight, it's heaven, though I know it's a sin
But it's the nights with you that get me
Through the lonely hell that I call day
So love me to sleep
Before you go
Don't even let me see you
Walk out the door
Hold me close to your body
And with kisses, so sweet
Make me feel like your woman
Love me to sleep
Love me to sleep
A woman's only gonna be as strong as she really wants to be
Tonight all I want to be is weak
So touch my body one more time, baby, lie to me, and tell me that you're mine
Give me something I can hold to
When I'm dreamin' broken-hearted dreams
And love me to sleep
Before you go
Don't even let me see you
Walk out the door
Hold me close to your body
And with kisses, so sweet
Make me feel like your woman
Love me to sleep
Love me to sleep
I know that when the morning comes I'll wake up, missing you again…
(Bill Jewell/Amber Jewell Guthrie)
I know that when the morning comes I'll wake up, missing you again
But that's just a small price to pay
'Cause when we're making love tonight, it's heaven, though I know it's a sin
But it's the nights with you that get me
Through the lonely hell that I call day
So love me to sleep
Before you go
Don't even let me see you
Walk out the door
Hold me close to your body
And with kisses, so sweet
Make me feel like your woman
Love me to sleep
Love me to sleep
A woman's only gonna be as strong as she really wants to be
Tonight all I want to be is weak
So touch my body one more time, baby, lie to me, and tell me that you're mine
Give me something I can hold to
When I'm dreamin' broken-hearted dreams
And love me to sleep
Before you go
Don't even let me see you
Walk out the door
Hold me close to your body
And with kisses, so sweet
Make me feel like your woman
Love me to sleep
Love me to sleep
I know that when the morning comes I'll wake up, missing you again…
(Bill Jewell/Amber Jewell Guthrie)
Recycling: August 8, 2006
Somewhere between midnight and daylight, visitors from my past drop by in their old skin and new clothes. They are no longer as I knew them but as I see them in my mind or as I wished them at one time. One a father, one a fighter, one faithful. We are joined by the snake with legs and rain that keeps us wet but fails to cleanse. We are abandoned by fear, embraced by curiosity. Down the stairs we run, opening doors along the way, hoping to find the missing pieces of our misery. I hear the buzz of early day and bid each adieu in that way that only I understand. They want to follow me, to watch me glide through my lost world of first kisses. I smile from the side of my mouth and offer my apologies to these mortal memories. They cannot walk where I walk, my steps have become too small.
Recycling: Meeting Kit (May 5, 2006)
John and I decided to go out and eat tonight... much as we do, um, every night. As we were pulling into the shopping center where there are several restaurants, we see a small black man in a wheelchair. He's using his feet to push himself backward up the hill toward the main road. He isn't using his hands and is swerving into traffic. People are driving around him. They stare and point, but no one stops to help or even rolls down the window to ask him if he's okay. It's obvious that this man does not belong in the middle of the street. He is lost or confused or both.
As we drive past him, I turn around to see his face. Immediately, I know that something is wrong with him. I insist that we stop. John pulls into the O'Charleys parking lot. I kick out of my flip-flops and walk barefoot up the grassy slope to the main drive.
I call out to the man across the street, asking him if he's okay.
"I don't know," he says.
I ask him his name. I hear something that sounds like Kit or Kip, but with the traffic I can't tell for sure. I go with Kit.
"Well, Kit, I want you to sit still. I'm going to come over there and get you."
I run across the street when traffic lets up. When I get to Kit, I take a good look at him and try to assess the situation. He is dressed in clean clothes and does not smell. I assume he's not homeless. Kit is not well, though. The whites of Kit's eyes are a dark yellow and look very milky. One eye slopes off to the side, half of his iris hides behind the edge of his socket. His other eye doesn't seem to focus very much. Kit has some type of dermatological condition that causes large knots and bumps on his face, neck and arms. His feet are turned in and slightly curled up.
When most people see someone like Kit, they do one of two things: immediately avert their eyes or they stare.
I will not lie to you. I was taken aback by Kit's appearance. Even a bit repulsed at first.
Regardless, I leaned over and put my hand on his arm.
"Kit, what are you doing out here by yourself?"
His voice is soft but clear, slow and childlike.
"I'm trying to get to the bus stop by the gas station."
"Well, pick up your feet and let me push you, okay? I'm afraid some drunk person may run over you leaving the restaurant."
I roll Kit back down the hill and into the parking lot at O'Charleys. By now, John has parked the car and joined me. I tell him that Kit needs to get to the bus stop. John walks up to the street to find out exactly where it is.
Meanwhile, I talk to Kit. Kit tells me he took the bus across town because he "needed a trip" and wanted to get something to eat. He'd just left White Castle and was trying to make it back to the bus stop. He knew he was headed in the right direction, but the cars were getting in his way.
He doesn't seem to realize he had been in danger.
John finds the bus stop in front of the gas station. We end up having to push Kit down the main street after all because the parking lots are divided by fences. Once we get to the bus stop, Kit gives John a few dollars and asks him to buy him a lighter.
As Kit smokes the cigarette he had stored behind his ear, I ask him questions.
He says he lives alone, though I don't understand how he can possibly care for himself. Since he smells clean, I assume someone bathes him.
His mother, father and siblings also live in the city. They check on him now and then.
He used to take the bus over here all the time but "things have changed."
He loves double cheese Slyders from White Castle. The single burgers "tease him."
His father is from Somerville, a town not far from my hometown of Henderson.
He's smoked since he was eleven, which he estimates was about 25 years ago.
As we talk, John and I noticed a large surgical scar through the closely cropped hair on the back of his head. We don't ask about it and can only wonder what happened to Kit. Was he always like this? Did he have surgery to try and "fix" him? Was he in an accident?
Another man waiting for the bus tells us he'll wait with Kit if we need to go. I thank him but politely refuse. I suppose my faith in fellow man was running a bit low at the moment after watching so many people pass Kit by on the street. I am not about to leave him alone.
The bus finally arrives. I panic a little because I don't see a wheelchair lift. Kit assures me there is one. He tells us to stand back and wait. Sure enough, the lift comes out from under the steps.
Kit tells us to have a good night. I tell him to be careful. We wave goodbye and the bus pulls away.
We met Kit hours ago, and I still can't get him off my mind. Why wouldn't anyone help him? It's not that they didn't notice him--they had to go AROUND him to avoid hitting him. I watched both white people and black people keep driving. Was it a fear of the color of his skin? Or perhaps a fear of his condition? All I had to do was speak to him and I knew he wasn't dangerous. Why were we the only ones who seemed to care?
Some people might consider me foolish. I jumped out of my car and approached a stranger who could have been crazy or dangerous. My philosophy is this: God, fate, karma--whatever you believe in--surely you will be kept safe when you reach out to help a fellow human being. Now, I realize this isn't always true. A lot of good people have died trying to save someone else. But if it is my time to go, at least I have the peace that I was trying to do something unselfish.
I'm not telling you about this because I want a pat on the back. I am no saint, no Samaritan.
I am writing about this because my heart is at the same time breaking and boiling over.
As cliche as it sounds, we live in dangerous times. There are plenty of people who will take advantage of kindness or charity. But we can't forget the many, many people who truly need our help.
By all means, be cautious and careful. But don't be so afraid that you won't reach out to someone who is obviously in danger or need.
You don't have to save the world. You don't have to save even one life.
Just do what little you can do. Don't ever look back and wonder what you could have done to help. Look back and say, "I did what I could do."
There comes a time in all of our lives when we are at the mercy of strangers. Strive to be the stranger you'd hope to meet in your time of need.
As we drive past him, I turn around to see his face. Immediately, I know that something is wrong with him. I insist that we stop. John pulls into the O'Charleys parking lot. I kick out of my flip-flops and walk barefoot up the grassy slope to the main drive.
I call out to the man across the street, asking him if he's okay.
"I don't know," he says.
I ask him his name. I hear something that sounds like Kit or Kip, but with the traffic I can't tell for sure. I go with Kit.
"Well, Kit, I want you to sit still. I'm going to come over there and get you."
I run across the street when traffic lets up. When I get to Kit, I take a good look at him and try to assess the situation. He is dressed in clean clothes and does not smell. I assume he's not homeless. Kit is not well, though. The whites of Kit's eyes are a dark yellow and look very milky. One eye slopes off to the side, half of his iris hides behind the edge of his socket. His other eye doesn't seem to focus very much. Kit has some type of dermatological condition that causes large knots and bumps on his face, neck and arms. His feet are turned in and slightly curled up.
When most people see someone like Kit, they do one of two things: immediately avert their eyes or they stare.
I will not lie to you. I was taken aback by Kit's appearance. Even a bit repulsed at first.
Regardless, I leaned over and put my hand on his arm.
"Kit, what are you doing out here by yourself?"
His voice is soft but clear, slow and childlike.
"I'm trying to get to the bus stop by the gas station."
"Well, pick up your feet and let me push you, okay? I'm afraid some drunk person may run over you leaving the restaurant."
I roll Kit back down the hill and into the parking lot at O'Charleys. By now, John has parked the car and joined me. I tell him that Kit needs to get to the bus stop. John walks up to the street to find out exactly where it is.
Meanwhile, I talk to Kit. Kit tells me he took the bus across town because he "needed a trip" and wanted to get something to eat. He'd just left White Castle and was trying to make it back to the bus stop. He knew he was headed in the right direction, but the cars were getting in his way.
He doesn't seem to realize he had been in danger.
John finds the bus stop in front of the gas station. We end up having to push Kit down the main street after all because the parking lots are divided by fences. Once we get to the bus stop, Kit gives John a few dollars and asks him to buy him a lighter.
As Kit smokes the cigarette he had stored behind his ear, I ask him questions.
He says he lives alone, though I don't understand how he can possibly care for himself. Since he smells clean, I assume someone bathes him.
His mother, father and siblings also live in the city. They check on him now and then.
He used to take the bus over here all the time but "things have changed."
He loves double cheese Slyders from White Castle. The single burgers "tease him."
His father is from Somerville, a town not far from my hometown of Henderson.
He's smoked since he was eleven, which he estimates was about 25 years ago.
As we talk, John and I noticed a large surgical scar through the closely cropped hair on the back of his head. We don't ask about it and can only wonder what happened to Kit. Was he always like this? Did he have surgery to try and "fix" him? Was he in an accident?
Another man waiting for the bus tells us he'll wait with Kit if we need to go. I thank him but politely refuse. I suppose my faith in fellow man was running a bit low at the moment after watching so many people pass Kit by on the street. I am not about to leave him alone.
The bus finally arrives. I panic a little because I don't see a wheelchair lift. Kit assures me there is one. He tells us to stand back and wait. Sure enough, the lift comes out from under the steps.
Kit tells us to have a good night. I tell him to be careful. We wave goodbye and the bus pulls away.
We met Kit hours ago, and I still can't get him off my mind. Why wouldn't anyone help him? It's not that they didn't notice him--they had to go AROUND him to avoid hitting him. I watched both white people and black people keep driving. Was it a fear of the color of his skin? Or perhaps a fear of his condition? All I had to do was speak to him and I knew he wasn't dangerous. Why were we the only ones who seemed to care?
Some people might consider me foolish. I jumped out of my car and approached a stranger who could have been crazy or dangerous. My philosophy is this: God, fate, karma--whatever you believe in--surely you will be kept safe when you reach out to help a fellow human being. Now, I realize this isn't always true. A lot of good people have died trying to save someone else. But if it is my time to go, at least I have the peace that I was trying to do something unselfish.
I'm not telling you about this because I want a pat on the back. I am no saint, no Samaritan.
I am writing about this because my heart is at the same time breaking and boiling over.
As cliche as it sounds, we live in dangerous times. There are plenty of people who will take advantage of kindness or charity. But we can't forget the many, many people who truly need our help.
By all means, be cautious and careful. But don't be so afraid that you won't reach out to someone who is obviously in danger or need.
You don't have to save the world. You don't have to save even one life.
Just do what little you can do. Don't ever look back and wonder what you could have done to help. Look back and say, "I did what I could do."
There comes a time in all of our lives when we are at the mercy of strangers. Strive to be the stranger you'd hope to meet in your time of need.
Recycling: Easter 2006
I came across this picture while visiting my mother last weekend. It was taken almost 25 years ago on an Easter morning. I wasn't even three years old yet. Look how excited I was about my little Easter basket. I didn't know how to play checkers and Lord knows I didn't need the candy, but that little basket was obviously like a pot of gold to me.
Not much has changed since that picture. My parents still have that terrible floor and paneling (though it no longer reflects light as it did here). My hair is still wild, I still spend a lot of time in my pajamas and my mouth is perpetually open (I'm sure I was talking, even as the picture was snapped). And thankfully, I still get this excited over what some might deem insignificant events. Messages in my Inbox. Waking up to find out I have 30 more minutes to sleep. The end of a long day. The beginnings of a friendship.
I hope that I can look back in 25 years and still feel my heart go "hippity hop" at the little things. Holding my husband's hand. A phone call from my children. The gift of another birthday.
I hope that I can still find joy in a cheap basket full of candy and board games.
If I can, then my life will have been well lived.
Recycling: Open Letter to Media (January 2006)
So I’m driving to work this morning, and “The Bob and Tom Show” takes a commercial break. I flip through the stations, hoping to find some listening pleasure for the last few minutes of my commute. One station is delivering the news, something I try not to listen to anymore in the morning. Though it may render me ignorant as far as the ol’ water cooler is concerned, at least I won’t start my day in a total funk. I pause on this particular station, though, because something the newscaster says piques my interest. It’s some “feel good” piece of news. I’m not sure what it was to be honest, which doesn’t matter anyway. The bit I wanted to hear ends, though, and stupid me doesn’t change the station. Suddenly, I’m hearing how the police have been dragging some body of water in search of a little boy and his pregnant, 19-year-old babysitter who have been missing for a month. It’s too late to change the station. I’ve already heard too much. Sadly, though, it’s not only the news that bothers me. It’s the voice delivering the news. This woman is talking about the disappearance of these people like she’s narrating the Macy’s Thanksgiving Parade. You can hear her smiling.
"Ms. Parker and the boy were last seen on November 6t. And Bob, here comes the Garfield balloon! I just love that darn cat!"
I know people comment, complain and bitch about this frequently, but I should get my turn, too. I’ve been sitting on this for awhile.
While home for Christmas, a Memphis television anchor segued from a “Santa Watch 2005” update to “Elderly couple killed in fire” without missing a beat or changing his tone. And to top it off, this was how he chose to report this story:
"It won’t be a Merry Christmas for one family this year. An elderly Millington couple suffered a horrendous death this morning when a fire destroyed their home."
Yes, sir, we know it won’t be a Merry Christmas for the family who lost their loved ones. Thank you for confirming our suspicions. And I never realized that dying in a fire constitutes “horrendous death.” I needed that clarified, too. Now I can eat my figgy pudding in peace.
Seriously, fuck you.
But you know what possibly bothers me worse than the people who report tragedies with a smile? The ones who pretend to be so grave and serious. I saw it a lot after Hurricane Katrina. While I have to admit that there were several reporters who truly seemed affected by what they were seeing around them (Anderson Cooper and surprisingly Shepard Smith), many might as well have written “Gimme an Emmy” across their heads in permanent marker. It was nothing but a performance for them, a contest to see who could act the most devastated or horrified. I sat there waiting for violins to play in the background to play "Nearer My God to Thee."
Cut out the dramatic bullshit. Think about what you’re reading. Think about the people who are affected. These aren’t just words on a teleprompter. They represent lives. If you’re going to show emotion, make sure it’s appropriate. And real.
A family of four is killed by a drunk driver? Don’t talk about their “horrendous deaths” or “twisted bodies” (I’ve actually heard that one). Show some respect. Solemnity is called for, not theatrics.
A man admits to raping neighborhood children? You should be shot if you smile. At the very least, you should be locked in a room with him. Think about those children before you open your mouth. Hell, show some anger if you want. Make your viewers and listeners angry with you, not at you.
A community raises $500,000 for a cancer patient’s medical bills? NOW smile! Rejoice! Celebrate!
You’re reporting stories about people to people. Connect with your audience. Don’t be afraid to let a story affect you. You may be surprised at your ratings.
But no fake sympathy. No gruesome imagery.
Respect the dead. And those they leave behind.
The evening news is not a reality show. It’s reality. The least you can do is be real.
"Ms. Parker and the boy were last seen on November 6t. And Bob, here comes the Garfield balloon! I just love that darn cat!"
I know people comment, complain and bitch about this frequently, but I should get my turn, too. I’ve been sitting on this for awhile.
While home for Christmas, a Memphis television anchor segued from a “Santa Watch 2005” update to “Elderly couple killed in fire” without missing a beat or changing his tone. And to top it off, this was how he chose to report this story:
"It won’t be a Merry Christmas for one family this year. An elderly Millington couple suffered a horrendous death this morning when a fire destroyed their home."
Yes, sir, we know it won’t be a Merry Christmas for the family who lost their loved ones. Thank you for confirming our suspicions. And I never realized that dying in a fire constitutes “horrendous death.” I needed that clarified, too. Now I can eat my figgy pudding in peace.
Seriously, fuck you.
But you know what possibly bothers me worse than the people who report tragedies with a smile? The ones who pretend to be so grave and serious. I saw it a lot after Hurricane Katrina. While I have to admit that there were several reporters who truly seemed affected by what they were seeing around them (Anderson Cooper and surprisingly Shepard Smith), many might as well have written “Gimme an Emmy” across their heads in permanent marker. It was nothing but a performance for them, a contest to see who could act the most devastated or horrified. I sat there waiting for violins to play in the background to play "Nearer My God to Thee."
Cut out the dramatic bullshit. Think about what you’re reading. Think about the people who are affected. These aren’t just words on a teleprompter. They represent lives. If you’re going to show emotion, make sure it’s appropriate. And real.
A family of four is killed by a drunk driver? Don’t talk about their “horrendous deaths” or “twisted bodies” (I’ve actually heard that one). Show some respect. Solemnity is called for, not theatrics.
A man admits to raping neighborhood children? You should be shot if you smile. At the very least, you should be locked in a room with him. Think about those children before you open your mouth. Hell, show some anger if you want. Make your viewers and listeners angry with you, not at you.
A community raises $500,000 for a cancer patient’s medical bills? NOW smile! Rejoice! Celebrate!
You’re reporting stories about people to people. Connect with your audience. Don’t be afraid to let a story affect you. You may be surprised at your ratings.
But no fake sympathy. No gruesome imagery.
Respect the dead. And those they leave behind.
The evening news is not a reality show. It’s reality. The least you can do is be real.
Saturday, July 25, 2009
Recycling: The XBOX Saga (2005)
This won't mean much to any of you, but I have to put it on here to save it. I wrote this in St. Louis to chronicle our Microsoft misery.
The XBOX Saga: Part One
So, I've been on the phone all day trying to track down an XBOX 360 for John. We should have reserved one MONTHS ago, but he wasn't sure he wanted one at the time. Now, it's the only thing he wants (obviously, since they cost eleventy trillion dollars).
They go on sale at midnight tonight. We've talked to every Wal-Mart in a 68 mile radius. They all have 10-20, but most of them have already been put on layaway. One place had a few that weren't spoken for, but the line was already crazy long.
So now it's on to Plan B. Sam's opens at 7:00 in the morning. They have 19. Usually, the 7:00 open time is only for business memberships. We've been told they're letting everyone in AND we've been told they're only letting business people in. I've tried to cover my bases. I'm going to be there around 5:00. A girl I work with is bringing her business membership card and meeting me. The first 19 people get a ticket to go in and buy the XBOX. SURELY, there won't be 19 people in line at 5 AM! I'm about to go to bed, though, so that I can get out there bright and early. Wait, I mean dark and early. Dark, cold and early.
Gee, I must love that boy more that I thought
Anywho, the saga continues tomorrow. I'll post again after I get to work. If you don't hear from me, I froze to death in the parking lot. Or got mugged. Or fell asleep and got trampled.
The XBOX Saga, Part II: The Passion of the Sam's
After a fitful night of dreaming about waiting in line and running through stores (fruitlessly) looking for an XBOX, I awake to the sweet sound of John’s alarm. 4:00 A.M. Rise and shine, Valentine. I manage to pull myself out of bed and shower without drowning. I bundle myself up like a modern Nanook the Eskimo (or whatever they like to be called now) and make my way to the local Sam’s Club in the hope of procuring the hallowed XBOX 360.
I pull in sometime between 4:30 and 5:00 to discover a line has already formed outside of the entrance. I do a quick count of heads (thirteen) and giddily (is that a word?) swing my car into the nearest open space. I know that Sam’s has 19 XBOX bundles inside. It appears that fate likes me. She really, really likes me.
I start talking to those in line (as I’m prone to doing) and discover that I am (alas) not number 14. A group of guys in the front have left to get food, asking their friend to “save their spots.” My philosophy is that if you’re going to wait in line, you wait in line. Period. Suffer with the rest of us. The woman in front of me says that only three guys left. I con my still slumbering mind into doing some quick calculations. Okay, that puts me at number 17. No sweat.
Time passes. A guy in line reveals that he has been sleeping in his car in the Sam’s parking lot since 1:00 AM. Another guy says that his buddy is in line at Best Buy with at least 40 other people. John shows up to keep me company. He doesn’t bring breakfast because McDonalds in Ballwin don’t open until 6:00. Go figure.
Suddenly, a car pulls into the parking lot carrying not three, but FOUR strapping young men bearing food. It seems that they have added one to their party while on their journey. The line in front of me suddenly grows longer. Can it be? I’m now number 18?? My palms begin to sweat. I look at John who is counting the line to himself.
It tell him it’s okay. We’re still number 18. I wonder, though, how many more spaces are being saved in the line? Then I wonder what it’s really like in jail…
A gentleman exits the building and makes his way toward the line. He has little slips of paper in his hands. He informs us that he’s going to pass out numbers to the first 19 so that we can all go home or sit in our car until the store opens. He makes his way down the line, finally coming to a stop in front of me. I think of all the bad things I’ve done, wondering if karma is about to kick me in the proverbial balls at last. Please, please, let me have an XBOX. It’s all John wants for Christmas.
“Here you go, ma’am. Number 17.”
17? I’m 17? I jump up and down. I hug John. I almost hug the guy with the tickets. I’m acting like the fat woman on The Price is Right!!! I’m as happy as the kid in that movie who finally got a Red Rider BB Gun. It's the fucking Golden Ticket!!! And it’s not even MY gift!
John and I take our ticket and head to Uncle Bill’s Pancake House for a celebratory feast (or some hash browns). It’s almost six and we’re both exhausted. But it’s worth it. It’s worth the short night of sleep and braving the elements just to see his face on Christmas morning.
Oh, who am I kidding. He’ll have this thing out of the box by the end of the night.
Still, it’s shaping up to be a happy holidays.
The XBOX Saga Continues (and hopefully ends)
Of all of the XBOX 360s in the world, I buy the one that has issues. John will never let me forget it, either. A sample conversation from the last few days.
John: I love you
Amber: I love you, too.
John: Then why did you buy me a broken XBOX?
It’s not actually broken. It’s just not functioning properly. I guess this tends to happen when stuff like this first comes out. Working out the kinks, you know?
He’d had the thing for about 24 hours when it started freezing up. Plus, it won’t let me play one of my games from the old XBOX that is supposed to be compatible. John called Microsoft. They sent him a box to ship it back in and said they’d take care of it. I just hope it’s back by Christmas. I have to have something to wrap and put under the tree. He’s promised to act surprised.
I have to admit, though, from what I’ve seen it’s pretty cool. The old games like Halo 2 don’t look different of course, but the new games (he got Madden ’06) look great. And I loathe football. The players don’t look generic. They actually look like the players. Like Peyton Manning? He’s looks as goofy as he does on TV! (cue hate mail)
Anywho, he’s very happy with his new toy which makes me happy.
The XBOX Saga: Return of the XBOX (aka I HATE DHL)
When we last left the XBOX was broken. We don't feel bad, though. So were many, many other consoles. In fact, some guy is suing Microsoft for putting out a faulty product in an attempt to beat Sony and Nintendo to the punch. It's total bullshit since all he has to do is send it back for a new one. Microsoft even pays for shipping.
But I'm getting ahead of myself.
I had mentioned in the last installment that MS had sent us a box in which we were to return the console. The box would ONLY hold the console, nothing else. Store that somewhere. You'll need it later.
We pack up the console and fill out the shipping label. Then I drive over to the nearest DHL dropoff station, which happens to be in Office Depot or Max or one of those stores.
I'm going to stop here and make something known. I. HATE. DHL. I only used them because I had no choice. They're MS's "preferred" carrier. I'm convinced that the entire DHL company is run by semi-retarded baboons (no offense to baboons or retards). And since it seems that DHL will put a drop-off in any business that asks for a kiosk, the chances of dealing with someone who doesn't give two shits about your package are up there in the "Very Probable" status. On top of that, their drivers are complete idiots. Many of them aren't even DHL employees; they're independent contractors. But let's back up a few more steps...
Earlier this year, John ordered something from Dell. DHL claimed they delivered it, but it wasn't left at our door or at our clubhouse. John calls Dell and they GRACIOUSLY send him another. Fast forward a few days. Suddenly, the DHL guy is at our door with the ORIGINAL package. It seems it somehow got "left in his truck" despite the fact that he logged it in as delivered.
Strike One.
Back to my story, I'm at the DHL counter talking to this teenage girl who probably chews gum for a hobby. She takes my package and shipping label, hands me my copy of the label and tells me she'll take care of it. I point out that there is an old packing label on the box. She once again says she'll take care of it.
So the next day, I go home for lunch. I walk up the stairs and LO AND BEHOLD in front of my apartment is... THE XBOX! The very XBOX that I dropped off not 12 hours earlier. There is NO shipping label on the box besides the old one with OUR address on it. On top of that, it's about 14 degrees! Boys and girls, what does the little label on electronics say? Do not expose to extreme cold or heat.
So the DHL man has left a $500 package on my DOORSTEP in the FREEZING COLD, a package that should already be labeled DELIVERED in the system and should be impossible to deliver back to us!!!
Strike Two.
I call Office Whatever and ask to talk to the DHL rep. The woman tells me that the girl who helped me will be in later in the evening and I should come by and get this worked out. She also tells me that it's POLICY to attach the label in the PRESENCE of the customer.
So I got to visit the Gum Chewer. It went something like this:
"You watched me attach the label."
"Um, no, I didn't. You told me it would be taken care of."
"Well, the label must have fallen off."
"It's a sticker. It doesn't just 'fall off.'"
"Well, then one of the other packages must have rubbed it off."
"According to your manager, only two packages went out yesterday. Try again."
Strike Three.
Doesn't this girl know I taught high school? I can smell the bullshit on her! So she finally gets a packaging slip out and prepares my package. I pray over the package and, just for good measure, I lay hands on Gum Chewer.
A few days pass. John calls Microsoft to make sure the package got there. According to DHL, it did. According to MS, they have no idea where it is. By the way, Microsoft also hires baboons who are only slightly less semi-retarded. Every time John called, no one seemed to be able to tell him the status on his XBOX or even if it was there! One girl even cancelled his original work order and started a new one. You'd think Bill Gates with all of his money would AT LEAST find some chimps to work for him. Or better yet, something that doesn't fling poo. Dolphins maybe.
After a few weeks, we finally get news that the XBOX is on its way. The problem is that DHL interprets "Overnight" as "When the hell ever." They shipped it to the wrong place!
That would be Strike Four if it even mattered anymore.
Anywho...finally, we got it back on Monday. The drone that delivered it could obviously read on a 1st grade level because he left the package at the clubhouse as the note on the door asked.
The system seems to be working just fine now. They sent us a whole new console. In fact, they sent us EXTRA stuff. Remember how I said earlier that the original box only fit the console? That means we weren't expected to send back everything, only the console. Well, they sent us a complete system: a wireless controller, remote, HD cords, power source. All of it. Finally, some sliver around our cloud!
So this is the end of the XBOX saga... I'm buying the two-year warranty just in case, though.
Merry Christmas everyone!
EPILOGUE (2009)
We are currently on our FOURTH XBOX in as many years. The 2nd one ALSO broke and had to be sent back. They sent a third one that had to be repaired in 2007. The third one recently got the RED RING OF DEATH (nerd talk for the XBOX is FINISHED) and we had to buy a FOURTH one because it was out of warranty.
I hate you Microsoft.
The XBOX Saga: Part One
So, I've been on the phone all day trying to track down an XBOX 360 for John. We should have reserved one MONTHS ago, but he wasn't sure he wanted one at the time. Now, it's the only thing he wants (obviously, since they cost eleventy trillion dollars).
They go on sale at midnight tonight. We've talked to every Wal-Mart in a 68 mile radius. They all have 10-20, but most of them have already been put on layaway. One place had a few that weren't spoken for, but the line was already crazy long.
So now it's on to Plan B. Sam's opens at 7:00 in the morning. They have 19. Usually, the 7:00 open time is only for business memberships. We've been told they're letting everyone in AND we've been told they're only letting business people in. I've tried to cover my bases. I'm going to be there around 5:00. A girl I work with is bringing her business membership card and meeting me. The first 19 people get a ticket to go in and buy the XBOX. SURELY, there won't be 19 people in line at 5 AM! I'm about to go to bed, though, so that I can get out there bright and early. Wait, I mean dark and early. Dark, cold and early.
Gee, I must love that boy more that I thought
Anywho, the saga continues tomorrow. I'll post again after I get to work. If you don't hear from me, I froze to death in the parking lot. Or got mugged. Or fell asleep and got trampled.
The XBOX Saga, Part II: The Passion of the Sam's
After a fitful night of dreaming about waiting in line and running through stores (fruitlessly) looking for an XBOX, I awake to the sweet sound of John’s alarm. 4:00 A.M. Rise and shine, Valentine. I manage to pull myself out of bed and shower without drowning. I bundle myself up like a modern Nanook the Eskimo (or whatever they like to be called now) and make my way to the local Sam’s Club in the hope of procuring the hallowed XBOX 360.
I pull in sometime between 4:30 and 5:00 to discover a line has already formed outside of the entrance. I do a quick count of heads (thirteen) and giddily (is that a word?) swing my car into the nearest open space. I know that Sam’s has 19 XBOX bundles inside. It appears that fate likes me. She really, really likes me.
I start talking to those in line (as I’m prone to doing) and discover that I am (alas) not number 14. A group of guys in the front have left to get food, asking their friend to “save their spots.” My philosophy is that if you’re going to wait in line, you wait in line. Period. Suffer with the rest of us. The woman in front of me says that only three guys left. I con my still slumbering mind into doing some quick calculations. Okay, that puts me at number 17. No sweat.
Time passes. A guy in line reveals that he has been sleeping in his car in the Sam’s parking lot since 1:00 AM. Another guy says that his buddy is in line at Best Buy with at least 40 other people. John shows up to keep me company. He doesn’t bring breakfast because McDonalds in Ballwin don’t open until 6:00. Go figure.
Suddenly, a car pulls into the parking lot carrying not three, but FOUR strapping young men bearing food. It seems that they have added one to their party while on their journey. The line in front of me suddenly grows longer. Can it be? I’m now number 18?? My palms begin to sweat. I look at John who is counting the line to himself.
It tell him it’s okay. We’re still number 18. I wonder, though, how many more spaces are being saved in the line? Then I wonder what it’s really like in jail…
A gentleman exits the building and makes his way toward the line. He has little slips of paper in his hands. He informs us that he’s going to pass out numbers to the first 19 so that we can all go home or sit in our car until the store opens. He makes his way down the line, finally coming to a stop in front of me. I think of all the bad things I’ve done, wondering if karma is about to kick me in the proverbial balls at last. Please, please, let me have an XBOX. It’s all John wants for Christmas.
“Here you go, ma’am. Number 17.”
17? I’m 17? I jump up and down. I hug John. I almost hug the guy with the tickets. I’m acting like the fat woman on The Price is Right!!! I’m as happy as the kid in that movie who finally got a Red Rider BB Gun. It's the fucking Golden Ticket!!! And it’s not even MY gift!
John and I take our ticket and head to Uncle Bill’s Pancake House for a celebratory feast (or some hash browns). It’s almost six and we’re both exhausted. But it’s worth it. It’s worth the short night of sleep and braving the elements just to see his face on Christmas morning.
Oh, who am I kidding. He’ll have this thing out of the box by the end of the night.
Still, it’s shaping up to be a happy holidays.
The XBOX Saga Continues (and hopefully ends)
Of all of the XBOX 360s in the world, I buy the one that has issues. John will never let me forget it, either. A sample conversation from the last few days.
John: I love you
Amber: I love you, too.
John: Then why did you buy me a broken XBOX?
It’s not actually broken. It’s just not functioning properly. I guess this tends to happen when stuff like this first comes out. Working out the kinks, you know?
He’d had the thing for about 24 hours when it started freezing up. Plus, it won’t let me play one of my games from the old XBOX that is supposed to be compatible. John called Microsoft. They sent him a box to ship it back in and said they’d take care of it. I just hope it’s back by Christmas. I have to have something to wrap and put under the tree. He’s promised to act surprised.
I have to admit, though, from what I’ve seen it’s pretty cool. The old games like Halo 2 don’t look different of course, but the new games (he got Madden ’06) look great. And I loathe football. The players don’t look generic. They actually look like the players. Like Peyton Manning? He’s looks as goofy as he does on TV! (cue hate mail)
Anywho, he’s very happy with his new toy which makes me happy.
The XBOX Saga: Return of the XBOX (aka I HATE DHL)
When we last left the XBOX was broken. We don't feel bad, though. So were many, many other consoles. In fact, some guy is suing Microsoft for putting out a faulty product in an attempt to beat Sony and Nintendo to the punch. It's total bullshit since all he has to do is send it back for a new one. Microsoft even pays for shipping.
But I'm getting ahead of myself.
I had mentioned in the last installment that MS had sent us a box in which we were to return the console. The box would ONLY hold the console, nothing else. Store that somewhere. You'll need it later.
We pack up the console and fill out the shipping label. Then I drive over to the nearest DHL dropoff station, which happens to be in Office Depot or Max or one of those stores.
I'm going to stop here and make something known. I. HATE. DHL. I only used them because I had no choice. They're MS's "preferred" carrier. I'm convinced that the entire DHL company is run by semi-retarded baboons (no offense to baboons or retards). And since it seems that DHL will put a drop-off in any business that asks for a kiosk, the chances of dealing with someone who doesn't give two shits about your package are up there in the "Very Probable" status. On top of that, their drivers are complete idiots. Many of them aren't even DHL employees; they're independent contractors. But let's back up a few more steps...
Earlier this year, John ordered something from Dell. DHL claimed they delivered it, but it wasn't left at our door or at our clubhouse. John calls Dell and they GRACIOUSLY send him another. Fast forward a few days. Suddenly, the DHL guy is at our door with the ORIGINAL package. It seems it somehow got "left in his truck" despite the fact that he logged it in as delivered.
Strike One.
Back to my story, I'm at the DHL counter talking to this teenage girl who probably chews gum for a hobby. She takes my package and shipping label, hands me my copy of the label and tells me she'll take care of it. I point out that there is an old packing label on the box. She once again says she'll take care of it.
So the next day, I go home for lunch. I walk up the stairs and LO AND BEHOLD in front of my apartment is... THE XBOX! The very XBOX that I dropped off not 12 hours earlier. There is NO shipping label on the box besides the old one with OUR address on it. On top of that, it's about 14 degrees! Boys and girls, what does the little label on electronics say? Do not expose to extreme cold or heat.
So the DHL man has left a $500 package on my DOORSTEP in the FREEZING COLD, a package that should already be labeled DELIVERED in the system and should be impossible to deliver back to us!!!
Strike Two.
I call Office Whatever and ask to talk to the DHL rep. The woman tells me that the girl who helped me will be in later in the evening and I should come by and get this worked out. She also tells me that it's POLICY to attach the label in the PRESENCE of the customer.
So I got to visit the Gum Chewer. It went something like this:
"You watched me attach the label."
"Um, no, I didn't. You told me it would be taken care of."
"Well, the label must have fallen off."
"It's a sticker. It doesn't just 'fall off.'"
"Well, then one of the other packages must have rubbed it off."
"According to your manager, only two packages went out yesterday. Try again."
Strike Three.
Doesn't this girl know I taught high school? I can smell the bullshit on her! So she finally gets a packaging slip out and prepares my package. I pray over the package and, just for good measure, I lay hands on Gum Chewer.
A few days pass. John calls Microsoft to make sure the package got there. According to DHL, it did. According to MS, they have no idea where it is. By the way, Microsoft also hires baboons who are only slightly less semi-retarded. Every time John called, no one seemed to be able to tell him the status on his XBOX or even if it was there! One girl even cancelled his original work order and started a new one. You'd think Bill Gates with all of his money would AT LEAST find some chimps to work for him. Or better yet, something that doesn't fling poo. Dolphins maybe.
After a few weeks, we finally get news that the XBOX is on its way. The problem is that DHL interprets "Overnight" as "When the hell ever." They shipped it to the wrong place!
That would be Strike Four if it even mattered anymore.
Anywho...finally, we got it back on Monday. The drone that delivered it could obviously read on a 1st grade level because he left the package at the clubhouse as the note on the door asked.
The system seems to be working just fine now. They sent us a whole new console. In fact, they sent us EXTRA stuff. Remember how I said earlier that the original box only fit the console? That means we weren't expected to send back everything, only the console. Well, they sent us a complete system: a wireless controller, remote, HD cords, power source. All of it. Finally, some sliver around our cloud!
So this is the end of the XBOX saga... I'm buying the two-year warranty just in case, though.
Merry Christmas everyone!
EPILOGUE (2009)
We are currently on our FOURTH XBOX in as many years. The 2nd one ALSO broke and had to be sent back. They sent a third one that had to be repaired in 2007. The third one recently got the RED RING OF DEATH (nerd talk for the XBOX is FINISHED) and we had to buy a FOURTH one because it was out of warranty.
I hate you Microsoft.
Recycled from April 2004
I wrote this for my students during my 3rd year of teaching. I'm afraid I've lost some of this passion and it breaks my heart. I want to be this teacher again, the teacher who's not afraid to pour her heart out to her kids so that they don't doubt my love for them. I've gotten jaded and I don't like it.
A love poem
April 2004
They laughed when I told them I was moving to the city
Me, a barefoot girl raised on bluegrass and biscuits
In a town where everyone knew my momma
And everyone loved my daddy
They laughed at the thought of me in this new foreign place,
my native tongue cut out by those who do not speak as I.
I endured their laughter and pitied their ignorance of what they could not understand.
I was meant for more than this small town.
Three summers have passed since I arrived in the rain, my belongings as soaked as my mother’s face when she said goodbye.
I made my home in a new place, a place where doors are locked tightly, where lives are lost nightly, where the old scars run deeply and prices rise steeply, where spirits are broken and truth is not spoken.
This place on the muddy River.
A new place where I am the minority.
A new place where I am not totally—at ease.
A new place that I now call—my home.
Sometimes I visit that small town that cradled me, enabled me, made a fable of both me and my childhood dreams and hopes.
The people there do not laugh now, but shake their collective heads in pity and sad respect.
And bewilderment.
And wonder.
And hate.
They do not understand why I would go somewhere so dark—dark alleys, dark deeds, dark skin.
They cannot fathom what I hear in my head, the whisper that tells me I must not stop, I cannot stop, I will not stop until the light of enlightenment shines in your eyes, until you embrace reality forget all the lies, until I can finally make you realize
That this life that you call a life does not have to be.
That you can’t all be stars but you all can shine.
That you may not have a mansion but you can have a home.
That my face may be white by my heart is red like yours and it breaks with each choice you make.
No, I must not stop, I cannot stop, I will not stop.
Not until those who love me question my priorities and curse the day I passed into this place of learning.
Not until I’ve lost countless nights of sleep worrying where you are and wondering what you’ll be.
Not until every ounce of blood and sweat and tears has fallen on this dirty floor and I scream and cry and grind my teeth from exhaustion
Not until you learn, until you learn poetry and prose, the new and the old, the one about the roads, the road less traveled and the road worn by many travelers before you.
Until you learn that you must take that road less traveled if you every wish to truly live.
The people of my small town do not understand why I care, how I can care for those who often care not for me, how I can love this culture that is not my own.
How I can love children whom I didn’t bear—
who may not know how to love me in return.
And it is I who pity the people in that small town, for they can never understand the fuel that lights my fire
To see a light in the eyes of one who finally understands, who forms a plan, who becomes a man
To see grace in the face of another who sees, who finally believes, who meets her needs
This desire to dry your tears and ease your fears to make you understand that I am not in front of you because I have to be but because I want to be.
That as much as I love this language I speak and putting pen to paper until I’m free, I love you more.
No money can buy the feeling inside, no title can make me prouder more than that title of educator, instructor…teacher.
No, I must not stop, I cannot stop, I will not stop.
Not until I make you understand.
They laughed when I told them I was movin’ to the city.
Away from the bluegrass and biscuits and momma and daddy
And everything I had ever known.
They laughed when I told them I was movin’ to the city.
But I am laughing now.
Recycled from November 9, 2005
I wrote this after moving to St. Louis. Fall is always a hard time of the year for me, but this was an especially bad season because I was extremely lonely. I eventually made two or three friends, but I spent the first few months very lonely and quite depressed. Reading this now, I am so thankful for the people God has placed in my life. It's been a long time since I had a truly lonely day.
Autumn is never easy for me. Oddly enough, it's both my favorite season and my saddest season. I look forward to watching the leaves turn and the weather growing colder. Every year, though, I can feel those old melancholy feelings sneaking up on me toward the middle of October.
This time of year holds both tender and bitter memories for me. Both seem to bring their own brand of sadness. This season will be particularly harder this year as I continue to adjust to my new city and new way of life. It's lonely here; I haven't been lonely in a very long time. I keep thinking back to my first semester at Union, before I met Rachel, Scott, Brandy and all of the other people whom I grew to love so deeply. Those four months were some of the lowest in my life. I had never felt so out of place. By Thanksgiving I had decided I'd transfer for 2nd semester, even if my parents cut me off completely. I didn't care. Luckily, that December I met the people I would call my own.
But this isn't college. I can't "transfer" out of my life. I try to keep myself busy, but I once again feel that I don't belong here. John tries his best to make me feel better, but he can only spend so much time with me. He's always so busy with work and preparing his seminar. My writing workshop, the only place I feel at ease around people, ended last night, which has put me in a terrible funk today. I have acquaintances who are friends of John but no one of my own. I spend most of my time on the phone with Jenny and Momma. Is it asking too much to want a friend? Someone I can go to a movie with? Or go have drinks with after a hard day? Why do I feel like such an alien here? Am I so different from these people?
I spent four years of college living within spitting distance of my best friends. Then I moved to Memphis and worked with my friends there. I was surrounded by my students who were my life. Suddenly, I don't even have someone to hang out with for half an hour. I mean, don't get me wrong, I love going out with John. We have a great time together. But he can't be with me every moment. And it's not good for us to spend ALL of our time together. Plus, I need a girl I can talk to about... well, girl stuff.
I crave camaraderie, a sense of belonging.
My favorite yellow tree, the one I see driving to work in the morning, is almost bare. I feel like my palette is empty, too. I'm not colorful anymore.
I'm actually looking forward to winter.
Autumn is never easy for me. Oddly enough, it's both my favorite season and my saddest season. I look forward to watching the leaves turn and the weather growing colder. Every year, though, I can feel those old melancholy feelings sneaking up on me toward the middle of October.
This time of year holds both tender and bitter memories for me. Both seem to bring their own brand of sadness. This season will be particularly harder this year as I continue to adjust to my new city and new way of life. It's lonely here; I haven't been lonely in a very long time. I keep thinking back to my first semester at Union, before I met Rachel, Scott, Brandy and all of the other people whom I grew to love so deeply. Those four months were some of the lowest in my life. I had never felt so out of place. By Thanksgiving I had decided I'd transfer for 2nd semester, even if my parents cut me off completely. I didn't care. Luckily, that December I met the people I would call my own.
But this isn't college. I can't "transfer" out of my life. I try to keep myself busy, but I once again feel that I don't belong here. John tries his best to make me feel better, but he can only spend so much time with me. He's always so busy with work and preparing his seminar. My writing workshop, the only place I feel at ease around people, ended last night, which has put me in a terrible funk today. I have acquaintances who are friends of John but no one of my own. I spend most of my time on the phone with Jenny and Momma. Is it asking too much to want a friend? Someone I can go to a movie with? Or go have drinks with after a hard day? Why do I feel like such an alien here? Am I so different from these people?
I spent four years of college living within spitting distance of my best friends. Then I moved to Memphis and worked with my friends there. I was surrounded by my students who were my life. Suddenly, I don't even have someone to hang out with for half an hour. I mean, don't get me wrong, I love going out with John. We have a great time together. But he can't be with me every moment. And it's not good for us to spend ALL of our time together. Plus, I need a girl I can talk to about... well, girl stuff.
I crave camaraderie, a sense of belonging.
My favorite yellow tree, the one I see driving to work in the morning, is almost bare. I feel like my palette is empty, too. I'm not colorful anymore.
I'm actually looking forward to winter.
Recycling...
I'm slowly sorting through my old Myspace blog and trying to salvage what I want to keep before I close my account. I'll be posting some of my old stuff on here since I'm way too busy studying for A.D. to write anything new.
Recycling...
I'm slowly sorting through my old Myspace blog and trying to salvage what I want to keep before I close my account. I'll be posting some of my old stuff on here since I'm way too busy studying for A.D. to write anything new.
Tuesday, July 7, 2009
Sole Survivors - Part One
Last week, a Yemenia Airbus crashed, claiming over 150 lives. It was originally reported that the only survivor was a five-year-old boy; however, the next day news sources were citing a 14-year-old girl as the sole survivor. I searched the crash to find out what had happened to the boy, thinking that he had possibly died and they'd found another survivor. It turned out that the earlier report was an error. While searching, though, I stumbled upon several accounts of other airplane catastrophes from which there emerged only one living person. I spent a couple of hours reading the accounts of these people, which left me thinking about what it would feel like if I were the only survivor of a disaster that cost the lives of everyone else involved. How would I handle the survivor's guilt? Would I spend my life always trying to "be more," feeling like I was spared so that I could do something significant? Would I feel like a failure if I didn't do something that I deemed worthy enough? Would I ever even be able to LEAD a normal life again? Would I be thankful for the gift I'd been granted and live life to the fullest? Or would I be a shell of a person, living the terrible day over and over?
It's definitely something I'd like to address in a short story. For now, I'd like to share some of the stories I found about sole survivors. Whether you call it sheer luck or a miracle, these are fascinating stories of survival.
Here is the first one.
Juliane Koepcke
Today, Juliane Koepcke is a librarian at the Zoological Center in Munich, Germany. But 38 years ago, in the Peruvian jungle, she was a survivor.
December 24, 1971. Christmas Eve. Koepcke was seventeen years old. She and her mother boarded a Lockheed Electra turboprop in Peru for a flight into the Amazonian rainforest, where Koepcke's father, a zoologist, was studying wildlife.
The airline had already lost two plains, but Koepcke and her mother were determined to spend the holidays with her father and figured things "would be alright."
About halfway into the hour-long flight, the plane flew into heavy clouds and began shaking. A bolt of lightning, seen only as a flash from inside the plane, hit one of the fuel tanks. The right wing was torn off of the plane, sending the aircraft into a nose dive.
Koepcke remembers her mother saying, 'This is it!'" She also remembers presents flying through the cabin and the screams of her fellow passengers.
The plane broke into pieces in midair, thrusting Koepcke out of the plane.
"Suddenly there was this amazing silence. The plane was gone. I must have been unconscious and then came to in midair. I was flying, spinning through the air and I could see the forest spinning beneath me."
Koepcke lost consciousness again. She fell more than two miles into the jungle canopy but miraculously survived with only minor injuries. The other ninety-one people aboard Flight 508, including her mother, perished.
Koepcke says she is not a spiritual person and has tried to find logical explanations for why she survived.
"Maybe it was the fact that I was still attached to a whole row of seats," she says. "It was rotating much like the helicopter and that might have slowed the fall. Also, the place I landed had very thick foliage and that might have lessened the impact."
Koepcke survived with only a broken collarbone, a right eye that was swollen shut, a concussion and large gashes on her arms and legs.
"I didn't wake up until nine o'clock the next morning. I know this because my watch was still working. So I must have been unconscious the whole afternoon and the night. When I came to I was alone, just me ... and my row of seats."
Koepcke found herself injured and stranded in the jungle since rescue parties were unable to locate the wreckage. During her time spent at her parents' research station, her father had taught her how to survive in the rainforest. She would need it in order to survive the next portion of her horrific ordeal.
The day after the crash she found a creek and started to wade down stream. Her father had told her to follow the small bodies of water to the larger ones and that it would eventually lead to people. The journey wasn't easy, though. She subsisted on candy she recovered from the crash site.
There was also the problem of parasites.
"I had a cut on my arm and after a few days I could feel there was something in it. I took a look and a fly had laid her eggs in the hole. It was full of maggots. I was afraid I would lose my arm. Later, after I was rescued it was treated and more than 50 maggots were found inside. I still wonder how so many maggots could have fitted into that little hole, it was no bigger than a one euro coin."
As she travelled , Koepcke discovered more wreckage from the plane, including other victims.
"I found another row of seats with three dead women still strapped in. They had landed head-first and the impact must have been so hard that they were buried almost two feet into the ground. I was horrified--I didn't want to touch them, but I wanted to make sure that my mother wasn't one of them. So I took a stick and knocked a shoe off one of the bodies. The toe nails had nail polish on them and I knew it could not have been my mother because she never used nail polish."
Juliane waded through jungle streams infested with crocodiles, piranhas and devil rays.
"Sometimes I would see a crocodile on the bank and it would start into the water towards me, but I was not afraid. I knew crocodiles don't tend to attack humans."
It took ten days before Koepke finally came upon a small boat and a hut on the river. She stayed there, hoping someone would find her and rescue her. The next day a group of Peruvian lumberjacks found her and brought her to the next town.
The events of 1971 still haunt Koepcke and she says the memories are especially clear when she is confronted with airline disasters like those in recent months.
"It just horrifies me. I only hope it all went quickly for those on board."
(Source: http://www.cnn.com/)
It's definitely something I'd like to address in a short story. For now, I'd like to share some of the stories I found about sole survivors. Whether you call it sheer luck or a miracle, these are fascinating stories of survival.
Here is the first one.
Juliane Koepcke
Today, Juliane Koepcke is a librarian at the Zoological Center in Munich, Germany. But 38 years ago, in the Peruvian jungle, she was a survivor.
December 24, 1971. Christmas Eve. Koepcke was seventeen years old. She and her mother boarded a Lockheed Electra turboprop in Peru for a flight into the Amazonian rainforest, where Koepcke's father, a zoologist, was studying wildlife.
The airline had already lost two plains, but Koepcke and her mother were determined to spend the holidays with her father and figured things "would be alright."
About halfway into the hour-long flight, the plane flew into heavy clouds and began shaking. A bolt of lightning, seen only as a flash from inside the plane, hit one of the fuel tanks. The right wing was torn off of the plane, sending the aircraft into a nose dive.
Koepcke remembers her mother saying, 'This is it!'" She also remembers presents flying through the cabin and the screams of her fellow passengers.
The plane broke into pieces in midair, thrusting Koepcke out of the plane.
"Suddenly there was this amazing silence. The plane was gone. I must have been unconscious and then came to in midair. I was flying, spinning through the air and I could see the forest spinning beneath me."
Koepcke lost consciousness again. She fell more than two miles into the jungle canopy but miraculously survived with only minor injuries. The other ninety-one people aboard Flight 508, including her mother, perished.
Koepcke says she is not a spiritual person and has tried to find logical explanations for why she survived.
"Maybe it was the fact that I was still attached to a whole row of seats," she says. "It was rotating much like the helicopter and that might have slowed the fall. Also, the place I landed had very thick foliage and that might have lessened the impact."
Koepcke survived with only a broken collarbone, a right eye that was swollen shut, a concussion and large gashes on her arms and legs.
"I didn't wake up until nine o'clock the next morning. I know this because my watch was still working. So I must have been unconscious the whole afternoon and the night. When I came to I was alone, just me ... and my row of seats."
Koepcke found herself injured and stranded in the jungle since rescue parties were unable to locate the wreckage. During her time spent at her parents' research station, her father had taught her how to survive in the rainforest. She would need it in order to survive the next portion of her horrific ordeal.
The day after the crash she found a creek and started to wade down stream. Her father had told her to follow the small bodies of water to the larger ones and that it would eventually lead to people. The journey wasn't easy, though. She subsisted on candy she recovered from the crash site.
There was also the problem of parasites.
"I had a cut on my arm and after a few days I could feel there was something in it. I took a look and a fly had laid her eggs in the hole. It was full of maggots. I was afraid I would lose my arm. Later, after I was rescued it was treated and more than 50 maggots were found inside. I still wonder how so many maggots could have fitted into that little hole, it was no bigger than a one euro coin."
As she travelled , Koepcke discovered more wreckage from the plane, including other victims.
"I found another row of seats with three dead women still strapped in. They had landed head-first and the impact must have been so hard that they were buried almost two feet into the ground. I was horrified--I didn't want to touch them, but I wanted to make sure that my mother wasn't one of them. So I took a stick and knocked a shoe off one of the bodies. The toe nails had nail polish on them and I knew it could not have been my mother because she never used nail polish."
Juliane waded through jungle streams infested with crocodiles, piranhas and devil rays.
"Sometimes I would see a crocodile on the bank and it would start into the water towards me, but I was not afraid. I knew crocodiles don't tend to attack humans."
It took ten days before Koepke finally came upon a small boat and a hut on the river. She stayed there, hoping someone would find her and rescue her. The next day a group of Peruvian lumberjacks found her and brought her to the next town.
The events of 1971 still haunt Koepcke and she says the memories are especially clear when she is confronted with airline disasters like those in recent months.
"It just horrifies me. I only hope it all went quickly for those on board."
(Source: http://www.cnn.com/)
Wednesday, July 1, 2009
Subtle Changes
Please bear with me. This will probably be long. And while it may seem like it's all about the death of a family dog, that is just the beginning...
Last weekend, my parents' fifteen-year-old lab/husky mix, Prissy, woke them up in the middle of the night. Over the past year or so, her health has slowly deteriorated. She couldn't hear well. She could no longer control her bowels. She was stiff. However, she still had a hearty appetite and retained her sunny disposition and playfulness (at least what her body would allow). We weren't sure she'd survive the winter, but she did. However, we were sure the blistering days we've experienced so far this summer would be too much for her. Mom and Dad kept the back porch watered down and kept a box fan running to keep her cool. On Saturday night, though, she began crying because she could not get up. My parents helped her up and spent most of the night tending to her and consoling her. On Sunday, Mom called to tell me that Prissy was very sick and that on Monday she would need to go to the vet, this time not to be treated but to bring an end to her pain. Sunday night was worse, with Mom spending much of the night on the porch, petting Prissy and talking to her.
On Monday morning, I called Mom and told her I would come down to help in any way. Any of you who know me very well know how I am about dogs. I generally prefer their company over the company of people, and I consider my two dogs to be as much a part of my family as any human relative. I knew the task before me would be difficult since not only would I be dealing with the death of a dog but also my mother's sadness. As I drove down, I prayed out loud for God to give me strength and peace.
When I arrived at my parents' house, mom was outside sitting with Prissy. Mom had given her some Vicodin to ease her pain and help her rest. Prissy couldn't get up or even roll over, but she still had her doggy smile.
Dad had started a grave down by the woods and asked me to go and look at it to see if it was wide enough. I found the grave--only about six inches deep--and it was only wide and long enough for a small dog. I didn't ask Dad to dig any more. He's been to the ER several times in recent years after passing out. They've never found a reason for this, but I figured digging a grave in the June heat couldn't be good for him, especially since he's 77 now. My friend Vaughn came to help me dig (though he moved a lot more dirt than I could). The ground was hard and full of roots, but we managed to dig a hole both deep and large enough to hold what would be the remains of our Prissy.
Mom put a tarp in the back of my Highlander because I couldn't stand the thought of her sliding around in the back of the pickup. Since she couldn't walk and we were afraid we'd hurt her or drop her if we picked her up, we had to place a sheet under her and carry her to the car. As Dad and I prepared to leave, Mom cried said goodbye to Prissy. I said a silent prayer again for strength. Seeing my mother cry devastates me, and at that exact moment, I needed to hold myself together for the drive to South Jackson.
I had forgotten how much Prissy doesn't like cars. Couple that with her fear and pain, and the ride to the vet was excruciating. She cried and moaned which made me cry. Since she can't hear much, nothing we said comforted her. Dad asked if I wanted to pull over and let him drive so that I could climb into the back with her. I knew, though, if I sat that close to her I would completely lose all composure. I hated to seem cold, but I knew I wouldn't be able to follow through with what we had to do if I sat with her. So I drove. I drove and I tried to talk about anything besides what we were doing.
We arrived at the vet and I filled out the necessary paperwork. I guess I had blocked out how expensive it is to have a pet put to sleep. It almost seems cruel that some people have financial stress added to the emotional stress of losing a pet. Though the money wasn't an issue on Monday, several years ago I had to have a stray puppy we picked up put down because we didn't have money for parvo treatments (John was in school and I was teaching). I remember wondering what WE would have to sacrifice to pay for euthanizing the puppy, which in turn made me feel like the most selfish person ever.
A vet tech carried Prissy inside and placed her on the table in an exam room. I sat with her while we waited on the vet. I was holding everything in, not wanting to cry and scare her. I talked to her and told her she was a good dog and that she was going to be okay. When the vet came in, though, I couldn't help it. As he very kindly explained the procedure I started crying. He asked us if we needed more time with her. I shook my head, knowing I had to get out of the room. I kissed my fingers and touched her face. I promised her, "You won't hurt any more."
Dad stayed with her since I couldn't and I didn't want her to be alone. It all took less than two minutes. When he came out, he told me that she closed her eyes immediately after the injection and that it was very peaceful. I began to text message furiously, anything to take my mind off of what had just happened a few feet away behind the door of exam room #2.
They wrapped her body and placed it in a box. The techs put her body in my car and we began the drive home. When we got there, dad wanted to sit and rest for awhile but I insisted that he get up and help me get her down to the grave. Knowing she was in my car made me anxious. I needed it to be done. We carried her down to the edge of the woods and placed her in the grave. We started to shovel dirt. In less than a minute, Dad was flushed. I told him to go inside, that I would finish. He put his shovel down and walked to the house.
I spent the next little while burying one of the sweetest dogs I've ever met. Thinking about it now, I can't believe I did it, that I did ANY of it. I obsess over stray dogs I see walking down the side of the road, worrying for miles that they will get hit by a car. I'm not sure how I held up as well as I did through the death and burial of a beautiful dog.
It's been two days now. I'm sad about Prissy, but I'm thankful she had a long life and that she did not have to suffer long. What has stuck with me and perhaps haunted me is the role reversals I experienced that day.
I've always accused my mother of being over-protective, but it's not something I mind so much to be honest. Not only has she tried to protect me from danger, she has also tried to protect me from sadness and heartache. My mother is one of the most empathetic people I've ever met, and she doesn't like to see people hurt--especially her children. When I told her I would come and take care of things with Prissy, she agreed. Don't get me wrong, I didn't offer to do it because I thought she'd refuse and I wouldn't have to follow through. I wanted her to let me handle it. She is so emotionally taxed by my grandparents that I just couldn't let her bear this burden, too. But when she agreed, I was surprised. I was ready to insist, but it wasn't necessary. I've had to take care of my mother physically in the past, but never emotionally. I've never had to step up and protect her from experiencing any more sadness. And while I'm not the least bit hesitant to do it, it was a reminder that both my mother and I are getting older.
Monday was also a reminder that my father--my strong, protective father--is not a young man anymore. He is not frail by any means, but he is not able to perform the physical work he once could. When he put down his shovel, I watched him walk toward the house, still with a slight limp even after having both knees replaced. At my insistence, my father had stopped working to return to the house, leaving me alone to bury Prissy. As I shoveled dirt back into the grave, I found myself worrying about my dad's health, both physical and mental. I suddenly assumed the role of a parent, hoping that he takes care of himself and doesn't do anything to push himself too hard. Though part of me still feels like Daddy's little girl, the other part of me feels like I should be protecting him. It's not a feeling I like but it is one I must accept.
I am blessed with wonderful, loving parents, but I am not fortunate enough to have parents as young as some of my friends. I am 30. My father is 77; my mother, 62. Every visit to my grandparents is sad and scary, watching time rob them of their minds and often their dignity. I pray that my parents remain healthy, both physically and mentally. It's not that I'm afraid of the physical commitment a child must make to take care of ailing parents, though I know how grueling it can be. I just can't bear the thought of my father not knowing who I am or my mother becoming a totally different person. But it is not for us to decide our fate in our last years and I pray that God will once again make me strong and give me peace. I pray that I can be the daughter that my mother has been to her parents, never giving up even when it would be easier and possibly less painful to walk away.
On Monday, I buried a dog. But I also buried a small piece of me, the little girl me that I still cling to.
I think I'm officially an adult now.
And I want to go back.
Last weekend, my parents' fifteen-year-old lab/husky mix, Prissy, woke them up in the middle of the night. Over the past year or so, her health has slowly deteriorated. She couldn't hear well. She could no longer control her bowels. She was stiff. However, she still had a hearty appetite and retained her sunny disposition and playfulness (at least what her body would allow). We weren't sure she'd survive the winter, but she did. However, we were sure the blistering days we've experienced so far this summer would be too much for her. Mom and Dad kept the back porch watered down and kept a box fan running to keep her cool. On Saturday night, though, she began crying because she could not get up. My parents helped her up and spent most of the night tending to her and consoling her. On Sunday, Mom called to tell me that Prissy was very sick and that on Monday she would need to go to the vet, this time not to be treated but to bring an end to her pain. Sunday night was worse, with Mom spending much of the night on the porch, petting Prissy and talking to her.
On Monday morning, I called Mom and told her I would come down to help in any way. Any of you who know me very well know how I am about dogs. I generally prefer their company over the company of people, and I consider my two dogs to be as much a part of my family as any human relative. I knew the task before me would be difficult since not only would I be dealing with the death of a dog but also my mother's sadness. As I drove down, I prayed out loud for God to give me strength and peace.
When I arrived at my parents' house, mom was outside sitting with Prissy. Mom had given her some Vicodin to ease her pain and help her rest. Prissy couldn't get up or even roll over, but she still had her doggy smile.
Dad had started a grave down by the woods and asked me to go and look at it to see if it was wide enough. I found the grave--only about six inches deep--and it was only wide and long enough for a small dog. I didn't ask Dad to dig any more. He's been to the ER several times in recent years after passing out. They've never found a reason for this, but I figured digging a grave in the June heat couldn't be good for him, especially since he's 77 now. My friend Vaughn came to help me dig (though he moved a lot more dirt than I could). The ground was hard and full of roots, but we managed to dig a hole both deep and large enough to hold what would be the remains of our Prissy.
Mom put a tarp in the back of my Highlander because I couldn't stand the thought of her sliding around in the back of the pickup. Since she couldn't walk and we were afraid we'd hurt her or drop her if we picked her up, we had to place a sheet under her and carry her to the car. As Dad and I prepared to leave, Mom cried said goodbye to Prissy. I said a silent prayer again for strength. Seeing my mother cry devastates me, and at that exact moment, I needed to hold myself together for the drive to South Jackson.
I had forgotten how much Prissy doesn't like cars. Couple that with her fear and pain, and the ride to the vet was excruciating. She cried and moaned which made me cry. Since she can't hear much, nothing we said comforted her. Dad asked if I wanted to pull over and let him drive so that I could climb into the back with her. I knew, though, if I sat that close to her I would completely lose all composure. I hated to seem cold, but I knew I wouldn't be able to follow through with what we had to do if I sat with her. So I drove. I drove and I tried to talk about anything besides what we were doing.
We arrived at the vet and I filled out the necessary paperwork. I guess I had blocked out how expensive it is to have a pet put to sleep. It almost seems cruel that some people have financial stress added to the emotional stress of losing a pet. Though the money wasn't an issue on Monday, several years ago I had to have a stray puppy we picked up put down because we didn't have money for parvo treatments (John was in school and I was teaching). I remember wondering what WE would have to sacrifice to pay for euthanizing the puppy, which in turn made me feel like the most selfish person ever.
A vet tech carried Prissy inside and placed her on the table in an exam room. I sat with her while we waited on the vet. I was holding everything in, not wanting to cry and scare her. I talked to her and told her she was a good dog and that she was going to be okay. When the vet came in, though, I couldn't help it. As he very kindly explained the procedure I started crying. He asked us if we needed more time with her. I shook my head, knowing I had to get out of the room. I kissed my fingers and touched her face. I promised her, "You won't hurt any more."
Dad stayed with her since I couldn't and I didn't want her to be alone. It all took less than two minutes. When he came out, he told me that she closed her eyes immediately after the injection and that it was very peaceful. I began to text message furiously, anything to take my mind off of what had just happened a few feet away behind the door of exam room #2.
They wrapped her body and placed it in a box. The techs put her body in my car and we began the drive home. When we got there, dad wanted to sit and rest for awhile but I insisted that he get up and help me get her down to the grave. Knowing she was in my car made me anxious. I needed it to be done. We carried her down to the edge of the woods and placed her in the grave. We started to shovel dirt. In less than a minute, Dad was flushed. I told him to go inside, that I would finish. He put his shovel down and walked to the house.
I spent the next little while burying one of the sweetest dogs I've ever met. Thinking about it now, I can't believe I did it, that I did ANY of it. I obsess over stray dogs I see walking down the side of the road, worrying for miles that they will get hit by a car. I'm not sure how I held up as well as I did through the death and burial of a beautiful dog.
It's been two days now. I'm sad about Prissy, but I'm thankful she had a long life and that she did not have to suffer long. What has stuck with me and perhaps haunted me is the role reversals I experienced that day.
I've always accused my mother of being over-protective, but it's not something I mind so much to be honest. Not only has she tried to protect me from danger, she has also tried to protect me from sadness and heartache. My mother is one of the most empathetic people I've ever met, and she doesn't like to see people hurt--especially her children. When I told her I would come and take care of things with Prissy, she agreed. Don't get me wrong, I didn't offer to do it because I thought she'd refuse and I wouldn't have to follow through. I wanted her to let me handle it. She is so emotionally taxed by my grandparents that I just couldn't let her bear this burden, too. But when she agreed, I was surprised. I was ready to insist, but it wasn't necessary. I've had to take care of my mother physically in the past, but never emotionally. I've never had to step up and protect her from experiencing any more sadness. And while I'm not the least bit hesitant to do it, it was a reminder that both my mother and I are getting older.
Monday was also a reminder that my father--my strong, protective father--is not a young man anymore. He is not frail by any means, but he is not able to perform the physical work he once could. When he put down his shovel, I watched him walk toward the house, still with a slight limp even after having both knees replaced. At my insistence, my father had stopped working to return to the house, leaving me alone to bury Prissy. As I shoveled dirt back into the grave, I found myself worrying about my dad's health, both physical and mental. I suddenly assumed the role of a parent, hoping that he takes care of himself and doesn't do anything to push himself too hard. Though part of me still feels like Daddy's little girl, the other part of me feels like I should be protecting him. It's not a feeling I like but it is one I must accept.
I am blessed with wonderful, loving parents, but I am not fortunate enough to have parents as young as some of my friends. I am 30. My father is 77; my mother, 62. Every visit to my grandparents is sad and scary, watching time rob them of their minds and often their dignity. I pray that my parents remain healthy, both physically and mentally. It's not that I'm afraid of the physical commitment a child must make to take care of ailing parents, though I know how grueling it can be. I just can't bear the thought of my father not knowing who I am or my mother becoming a totally different person. But it is not for us to decide our fate in our last years and I pray that God will once again make me strong and give me peace. I pray that I can be the daughter that my mother has been to her parents, never giving up even when it would be easier and possibly less painful to walk away.
On Monday, I buried a dog. But I also buried a small piece of me, the little girl me that I still cling to.
I think I'm officially an adult now.
And I want to go back.
Friday, June 26, 2009
For you Miley
So today I was thinking about Miley Cyrus.
No, seriously.
As I passed through the living room, Showbiz Tonight (why, CNN? WHY?) was promising news on some kind of "scandal" involving Miss Hannah Montana herself. It ended up being nothing that even involved the girl.
Well, I started thinking off all the times that people (including me) have labeled her a "bad role model" for young girls. But you know, compared to some of the other girls her age (from past and present), she's really not that bad. No DUIs. No drug charges. No pregnancies. No crotch shots or boob slips.
I mean, yeah, she's been kinda bitchy to some of her fellow Disney stars. She's had some questionable photos on the Internet (as well as the famous "naked back" cover from Vanity Fair). She hasn't always said the brightest things or made the best decisions. I'll even admit that if I had a little girl, I wouldn't want her to look up to Miley.
My point, though, is that we've all been a bit hard on the girl. Considering the Hollywood world she's growing up in (and she is still growing up--she's only 16) and all of the temptations that are available (for free!), the kid's not doing half bad. I mean, if the paps had followed ME around with a camera at her age, I shudder at what they would have captured on film. Why are we holding her up to some higher standard just because she's famous? If anything, she has it harder that any of us did when it comes to temptations. She's surrounded by it. When it comes down to it, how many of us were shitty role models for younger kids when we were teenagers? I got into enough trouble living in Podunk; I can't imagine what might have happened if I were in HER position.
So, do I necessarily think little girls should want to emulate Miley? I wouldn't go that far. But I DO think it's taking a bit far to practically label the child with a scarlet letter. I know at this point she's losing steam and young girls are finding new young celebrities to idolize, but I've been hard on Miley before and feel like admitting it.
I mean, I'm sure it's kept her up at night...
No, seriously.
As I passed through the living room, Showbiz Tonight (why, CNN? WHY?) was promising news on some kind of "scandal" involving Miss Hannah Montana herself. It ended up being nothing that even involved the girl.
Well, I started thinking off all the times that people (including me) have labeled her a "bad role model" for young girls. But you know, compared to some of the other girls her age (from past and present), she's really not that bad. No DUIs. No drug charges. No pregnancies. No crotch shots or boob slips.
I mean, yeah, she's been kinda bitchy to some of her fellow Disney stars. She's had some questionable photos on the Internet (as well as the famous "naked back" cover from Vanity Fair). She hasn't always said the brightest things or made the best decisions. I'll even admit that if I had a little girl, I wouldn't want her to look up to Miley.
My point, though, is that we've all been a bit hard on the girl. Considering the Hollywood world she's growing up in (and she is still growing up--she's only 16) and all of the temptations that are available (for free!), the kid's not doing half bad. I mean, if the paps had followed ME around with a camera at her age, I shudder at what they would have captured on film. Why are we holding her up to some higher standard just because she's famous? If anything, she has it harder that any of us did when it comes to temptations. She's surrounded by it. When it comes down to it, how many of us were shitty role models for younger kids when we were teenagers? I got into enough trouble living in Podunk; I can't imagine what might have happened if I were in HER position.
So, do I necessarily think little girls should want to emulate Miley? I wouldn't go that far. But I DO think it's taking a bit far to practically label the child with a scarlet letter. I know at this point she's losing steam and young girls are finding new young celebrities to idolize, but I've been hard on Miley before and feel like admitting it.
I mean, I'm sure it's kept her up at night...
Something borrowed...
Ginger Kolbaba, the editor of Marriage Partnerships, wrote this open letter to Kate Goesselin. It's worth a read and definitely a different take than ANYTHING you hear in the media. Read on...
In the past you’ve been vocal about your Christian faith. To be sure, I don’t know all the circumstances of your situation. I haven’t “walked in your shoes” or carried the burdens you’ve had to bear. I’ve heard the rumors that there’s been infidelity with possibly no repentance. And if that’s true, my heart breaks for all you’ve had to experience through that situation. I’ve seen “up close and personal” the devastation that infidelity can have on a marriage and family.
Having said that, as a sister in Christ to you, take what I’m about to say in the spirit of love and concern: Please don’t do what you’re doing.
And I’m not just talking to you. I’m talking to your husband too.
For too long I’ve watched Christian couples live self-centered lives, pursuing their own desires, talking about following Christ and the principles of our faith, but not actually living them out. And when life gets difficult—as it does for every couple—they throw in the towel, acting helpless, showing to the world that when the apostle Paul said, “We are more than conquerors through Christ,” he didn’t actually mean it.
For too long I’ve watched Christians show to those outside our faith that Christianity, in fact, doesn’t strengthen us or make us any different from people who don’t follow Jesus. Instead I hear couples say, “The kids will be better off to have calm. It’s not good for them to see us arguing. Everything will be just fine. We’re doing this for the kids. It’s all for the good of the kids.”
It’s rubbish. Kate (and Jon), who’s in control of the peace and calm of the kids? You are. You have the responsibility to bring calm into your family. But the good news is that God brings the grace and power to help you do that, through his Word, through prayer, through the community of believers, and through good old-fashioned determination. Why wash your hands of it, as though to say, It’s not my fault. I don’t know how else to manage it but to separate. I have no control over the situation.
Other people may say that. But not us. Not those of us who say we believe in the power of Jesus Christ and what he did for us on the cross.
You say you love your children. For the sake of your family, for the sake of how you’re portraying Christianity to the world, and for the sake of your own souls, quit the TV show and get some privacy, get into some good solid, biblical counseling and accountability, grow up, and start acting on your beliefs.
Model to your children and to the world that when life gets difficult, you do the right and courageous thing: You stand firm in your faith, you pray desperately, you follow the Golden Rule in the way you treat your spouse (Luke 6:31), you commit to staying together. And you always remember that this is an eternal, spiritual issue.
Kate, right now is when the proverbial rubber meets the road. Right now is when God watches to see if the tests of life will make you into the kind of person he desires or if you will go the way of the world. James tells us to “consider it pure joy . . . whenever you face trails of many kinds, because you know that the testing of your faith develops perseverance. Perseverance must finish its work so that you may be mature and complete, not lacking anything” (James 1:2–4).
Right now you have been presented with an amazing opportunity. You can teach your children how to look at tough times through spiritual eyes. Is it easy? No. But it beats the alternative of allowing your family to be broken up, crushing your spirit, and fracturing your soul. The road you’re on doesn’t lead to peace and calm for anybody.
True joy and peace come after you’ve fought the good fight and you come out on the other side of this conflict still married and still an intact family. That’s what people who live by faith do. They believe in the power of Christ to overcome every trouble and problem. But you have to do your part and work willingly alongside God’s Holy Spirit. Not giving up. Never giving up.
You can do it, Kate. I believe you have the ability through Christ to stick it out, mature in your spiritual character, and show your children what overcoming difficulties really looks like. That’s loving your children and loving God. That’s showing our culture what following Jesus looks like. You won’t regret it. And neither will your kids.
Wednesday, June 10, 2009
Recycling - May 10, 2006
9 Chapters of Heartache
Chapter One
Nappy head, nappy head, comb your hair
Mama tells me to ignore those children. She says they're just jealous cause I got something they don't.
They're all plain and I'm special.
I don't understand what's so special about me. What's so special about being so different? I don't look like nobody. Not those kids at school. Not even my mama.
All those kids with their light skin and shiny eyes, with their hair that lays flat. Even my mama, she has yellow hair and eyes the color of fresh snap beans.
I never seen my daddy. He died before I was born. Mama said he drowned in the Forked Deer.
She says I look like my daddy and that's how come I'm special. Mama cries when she looks at me sometimes.
I tell her it would be a lot easier if daddy was here. It'd be nice to look like someone.
I've asked to see a picture of my daddy, but Mama says she don't have one. She says daddy didn't like having his picture made.
I've asked Granny and Paps about my daddy. Paps took me to the kitchen and traded ice cream for my thoughts. Granny looked real mad but then she cried a little.
Guess they must have really loved my daddy, too
Chapter Two
"Reenie asked about her daddy again today."
"Mmm."
"Max, did you hear what I said?"
"I heard you."
"She getting older, Max. She gonna want to know."
"She don't need to know, Neetha. She just a girl."
"You used to say the exact same thing about Meg."
"Meg was different and you know it. Don't try to blame me for Meg."
"I'm not blaming you, Max. What happened to Meg was her own damned fault. But we can't blame her for Reenie not having a daddy. That's our fault."
"No, Neetha, its not. Meg knew better. We did what we had to do to protect her. Reenie's better off without her daddy anyway."
"How can you--"
"Look. I don't want to argue about this again. It won't change anything. If Meg wants Reenie to know, she can tell her. Let her explain to the poor child why she's a bastard and why the other kids won't play with her. It's not our place. Now go get dinner started before it gets dark."
Chapter Three
Every time I look at that child's face, I see her daddy looking back at me.
My blessing and my heartache.
He'd be twenty nine this week.
Reenie would have a daddy, someone who looks like her.
And I wouldn't have to endure any more lonely nights or one night stands or half-hearted relationships.
I never was a good liar. Mama always knew I was telling a story from how I'd chew my lip and pigeon my toes.
But no one saw through the biggest lie I ever told.
And since then, every day has been a lie.
Lying to my daughter.
Lying to myself.
Chapter Four
"Mama, its time to put those pictures away and go to bed. We got church in the morning."
"I can't decide what to get him, Janet. You think he could use a pair of work boots? He's so rough on his shoes. I don't know what that boy does to wear holes in his shoes like that."
"Now, Mama, don't do this. Not tonight."
"But his birthdays Tuesday. The store'll be closed tomorrow for the Sabbath, so I have to get him something Monday. Would you drive me into town, honey?"
"That's fine, Mama. Whatever you want. Well talk about it tomorrow, though. I'm tired."
"I wonder what's taking him so long to get home?"
"For who to get home, Mama?"
"Glory be, child. Who you think? Ain't but one 'he' in this house since your daddy died."
"Mama, you know that that he goes out sometimes on Saturday night with those Wilson boys. There's no need to wait up for him. He might not be in 'til after midnight."
"Lord, I know. I just worry bout him, Janet. I worry 'bout my baby. You'll understand someday when you got children of your own."
"I'm sure I will, Mama. Now let's go on to bed. We can't have you fallin' asleep in the choir tomorrow."
Chapter Five
Alvin,
Hope you and the kids are making it without me. I'm coming home on Wednesday after Leona gets here. Mama had a pretty good day. She got to talking about Ben tonight, though. He'd be celebrating a birthday next week and she's wondering what to get him. I know the doctors told us to set her straight, but I just didn't have it in me to do it tonight. I told her we'd go to the store and shop on Monday. I don't know how much longer we can all do this. Every day is different and they don't seem to get any easier. For her or us. I shudder to think about losing one of ours, but I pray that I handle it better than this if it should happen. I regret that we didn't let her see him. She needed to see him, Alvin. She needed closure. I just didn't think at the time that she could handle him looking so bad. Kiss the children for me. I love you.
Janet
Chapter Six
"Sherriff, Jerry just came home and said there's a colored boy laying on the side of the road out past the Harville place. I ain't sure if he's dead or not, but y'all need to come out and check on it. Jerry says the boy's covered in blood."
Chapter Seven
"Margaret Lee, I don't want no explanations. There's no explaining this."
"But Daddy, you don't understand--"
"I don't want to understand. I want to know why you would do this to your mama and me. Do you know what this could do to our family? I could lose my job over this. And for what? For some no good coon--"
"Don't you dare say that! He's a good man. He's good to me. And he loves me."
"A good man don't take advantage of a little girl like you!"
"I ain't a little girl now! I'm seventeen years old! And he didn't want to do it. He told me we should wait 'til we married. I begged him to, though. I wanted to. He didn't take advantage of me. This is my fault. I wanted to show him how much I love him!"
"You don't love him, child, he ain't our kind. He's an animal and no daughter of mine is dating an animal. He don't love you. All he knows is fucking. He just wanted to go back and brag to all his little greasy friends how he got him a little white girl in the bed."
"Why won't you listen to me, daddy? You don't know him. You don't know what he's like with me. He sings to me and brings me flowers and he made me a little jewelry box with his own hands. And he's smart, Daddy. He reads and he even writes songs some."
"And what did you think was going to come of all this? Did you think that far? You think you got a future with him? That he'll marry you? You two gonna have some little mutt kids running around your shack? You think he's gonna settle down with you? Those people are like dogs in heat. How could you be so stupid, child! Have we not taught you anything?
"But we--"
"We, we, we, Meg. We what? What were we gonna do?"
"Dammit, Daddy, we were going to leave! We've been saving money for months, just waiting for me to graduate. He was going to marry me, Daddy!"
"Leave? Now you listen to me. You ain't going anywhere. And I mean anywhere. You're staying in this house unless you leave with your mother or me."
"You can't go to school with me."
"Then you won't go to school. We're withdrawing you Monday morning."
"But Daddy--"
"Shut your mouth, Margaret. You brought this on yourself. I want you to call that boy and tell him this is done. You will never see him again. And if I catch him showing his face around here, I'll kill him myself. Now go wash your face off before your mother gets home."
Chapter Eight
Oh God. She hasn't asked me to bring her anything from the store this month. Please don't punish my daughter for her mistake. Please don't make her pay for this for the rest of her life. Please spare our family from the shame of her sin. I've served you faithfully. Grant this one prayer for me, Father.
Chapter Nine
"Now, Meg, did he say anything to you, anything at all?"
"He...he told me, 'Be quiet bitch or I'll choke you.'"
"And then what happened?"
"He put his...he touched..."
"It's okay, baby. I know this is hard, but you have to tell them everything. You don't have to be ashamed because you've done nothing wrong. Now, tell Sheriff Bailey what happened so that he can take care of this."
Chapter Ten
The body of a man wanted in connection with the recent sexual assault of a Sherman High School senior was found on Mason Road early this morning. Police have identified the man as 20-year-old Benjamin Miller. Miller had been beaten and preliminary reports indicate that he most likely died of trauma to the head. There were no signs of struggle at the scene and police speculate that he was attacked elsewhere and left on Mason Road some time between midnight and 4:00 AM. Anyone with information is encouraged to contact Sheriff Dan Bailey.
Chapter One
Nappy head, nappy head, comb your hair
Mama tells me to ignore those children. She says they're just jealous cause I got something they don't.
They're all plain and I'm special.
I don't understand what's so special about me. What's so special about being so different? I don't look like nobody. Not those kids at school. Not even my mama.
All those kids with their light skin and shiny eyes, with their hair that lays flat. Even my mama, she has yellow hair and eyes the color of fresh snap beans.
I never seen my daddy. He died before I was born. Mama said he drowned in the Forked Deer.
She says I look like my daddy and that's how come I'm special. Mama cries when she looks at me sometimes.
I tell her it would be a lot easier if daddy was here. It'd be nice to look like someone.
I've asked to see a picture of my daddy, but Mama says she don't have one. She says daddy didn't like having his picture made.
I've asked Granny and Paps about my daddy. Paps took me to the kitchen and traded ice cream for my thoughts. Granny looked real mad but then she cried a little.
Guess they must have really loved my daddy, too
Chapter Two
"Reenie asked about her daddy again today."
"Mmm."
"Max, did you hear what I said?"
"I heard you."
"She getting older, Max. She gonna want to know."
"She don't need to know, Neetha. She just a girl."
"You used to say the exact same thing about Meg."
"Meg was different and you know it. Don't try to blame me for Meg."
"I'm not blaming you, Max. What happened to Meg was her own damned fault. But we can't blame her for Reenie not having a daddy. That's our fault."
"No, Neetha, its not. Meg knew better. We did what we had to do to protect her. Reenie's better off without her daddy anyway."
"How can you--"
"Look. I don't want to argue about this again. It won't change anything. If Meg wants Reenie to know, she can tell her. Let her explain to the poor child why she's a bastard and why the other kids won't play with her. It's not our place. Now go get dinner started before it gets dark."
Chapter Three
Every time I look at that child's face, I see her daddy looking back at me.
My blessing and my heartache.
He'd be twenty nine this week.
Reenie would have a daddy, someone who looks like her.
And I wouldn't have to endure any more lonely nights or one night stands or half-hearted relationships.
I never was a good liar. Mama always knew I was telling a story from how I'd chew my lip and pigeon my toes.
But no one saw through the biggest lie I ever told.
And since then, every day has been a lie.
Lying to my daughter.
Lying to myself.
Chapter Four
"Mama, its time to put those pictures away and go to bed. We got church in the morning."
"I can't decide what to get him, Janet. You think he could use a pair of work boots? He's so rough on his shoes. I don't know what that boy does to wear holes in his shoes like that."
"Now, Mama, don't do this. Not tonight."
"But his birthdays Tuesday. The store'll be closed tomorrow for the Sabbath, so I have to get him something Monday. Would you drive me into town, honey?"
"That's fine, Mama. Whatever you want. Well talk about it tomorrow, though. I'm tired."
"I wonder what's taking him so long to get home?"
"For who to get home, Mama?"
"Glory be, child. Who you think? Ain't but one 'he' in this house since your daddy died."
"Mama, you know that that he goes out sometimes on Saturday night with those Wilson boys. There's no need to wait up for him. He might not be in 'til after midnight."
"Lord, I know. I just worry bout him, Janet. I worry 'bout my baby. You'll understand someday when you got children of your own."
"I'm sure I will, Mama. Now let's go on to bed. We can't have you fallin' asleep in the choir tomorrow."
Chapter Five
Alvin,
Hope you and the kids are making it without me. I'm coming home on Wednesday after Leona gets here. Mama had a pretty good day. She got to talking about Ben tonight, though. He'd be celebrating a birthday next week and she's wondering what to get him. I know the doctors told us to set her straight, but I just didn't have it in me to do it tonight. I told her we'd go to the store and shop on Monday. I don't know how much longer we can all do this. Every day is different and they don't seem to get any easier. For her or us. I shudder to think about losing one of ours, but I pray that I handle it better than this if it should happen. I regret that we didn't let her see him. She needed to see him, Alvin. She needed closure. I just didn't think at the time that she could handle him looking so bad. Kiss the children for me. I love you.
Janet
Chapter Six
"Sherriff, Jerry just came home and said there's a colored boy laying on the side of the road out past the Harville place. I ain't sure if he's dead or not, but y'all need to come out and check on it. Jerry says the boy's covered in blood."
Chapter Seven
"Margaret Lee, I don't want no explanations. There's no explaining this."
"But Daddy, you don't understand--"
"I don't want to understand. I want to know why you would do this to your mama and me. Do you know what this could do to our family? I could lose my job over this. And for what? For some no good coon--"
"Don't you dare say that! He's a good man. He's good to me. And he loves me."
"A good man don't take advantage of a little girl like you!"
"I ain't a little girl now! I'm seventeen years old! And he didn't want to do it. He told me we should wait 'til we married. I begged him to, though. I wanted to. He didn't take advantage of me. This is my fault. I wanted to show him how much I love him!"
"You don't love him, child, he ain't our kind. He's an animal and no daughter of mine is dating an animal. He don't love you. All he knows is fucking. He just wanted to go back and brag to all his little greasy friends how he got him a little white girl in the bed."
"Why won't you listen to me, daddy? You don't know him. You don't know what he's like with me. He sings to me and brings me flowers and he made me a little jewelry box with his own hands. And he's smart, Daddy. He reads and he even writes songs some."
"And what did you think was going to come of all this? Did you think that far? You think you got a future with him? That he'll marry you? You two gonna have some little mutt kids running around your shack? You think he's gonna settle down with you? Those people are like dogs in heat. How could you be so stupid, child! Have we not taught you anything?
"But we--"
"We, we, we, Meg. We what? What were we gonna do?"
"Dammit, Daddy, we were going to leave! We've been saving money for months, just waiting for me to graduate. He was going to marry me, Daddy!"
"Leave? Now you listen to me. You ain't going anywhere. And I mean anywhere. You're staying in this house unless you leave with your mother or me."
"You can't go to school with me."
"Then you won't go to school. We're withdrawing you Monday morning."
"But Daddy--"
"Shut your mouth, Margaret. You brought this on yourself. I want you to call that boy and tell him this is done. You will never see him again. And if I catch him showing his face around here, I'll kill him myself. Now go wash your face off before your mother gets home."
Chapter Eight
Oh God. She hasn't asked me to bring her anything from the store this month. Please don't punish my daughter for her mistake. Please don't make her pay for this for the rest of her life. Please spare our family from the shame of her sin. I've served you faithfully. Grant this one prayer for me, Father.
Chapter Nine
"Now, Meg, did he say anything to you, anything at all?"
"He...he told me, 'Be quiet bitch or I'll choke you.'"
"And then what happened?"
"He put his...he touched..."
"It's okay, baby. I know this is hard, but you have to tell them everything. You don't have to be ashamed because you've done nothing wrong. Now, tell Sheriff Bailey what happened so that he can take care of this."
Chapter Ten
The body of a man wanted in connection with the recent sexual assault of a Sherman High School senior was found on Mason Road early this morning. Police have identified the man as 20-year-old Benjamin Miller. Miller had been beaten and preliminary reports indicate that he most likely died of trauma to the head. There were no signs of struggle at the scene and police speculate that he was attacked elsewhere and left on Mason Road some time between midnight and 4:00 AM. Anyone with information is encouraged to contact Sheriff Dan Bailey.
Recycling - December 29, 2005
“Bethany Lynn Miller, you either get out of that bed in the next 10 seconds, or I will drag you to church in your nightgown!”
I roll my back to her and let out a combination snort and grunt.
“Young lady, I am not kidding. You are gonna make us all late again. Don’t make me get your daddy in here.”
I flip my pillow to the cool side and pull my quilt further up over my head. Like Daddy’s gonna do anything. He’s sitting in the den, drinking coffee and getting his Sunday School lesson ready.
Momma knows I’ve called her bluff.
“Now why are you going to make me act all un-Christian on Sunday? Why can’t we just have a nice, normal Sunday and go to church without a big fuss?”
From under my quilt I answer, “I don’t know, Momma, you tell me. You’re the one doing all the screaming.”
No sooner are the words out of my mouth than I know what is about to happen. In one swoop, my sheet and quilt are in the floor and Momma has jerked my pillow from underneath my head. I try to brace myself, but it’s too late. Morning has arrived and it’s cold and bright and loud in only the way Momma can make it.
“Now, smart-mouth, we are leaving in half an hour. I want you showered and dressed and presentable. You have new pantyhose in your dresser. And pin your hair back out of your face. You’re going to the Lord’s house.”
I mouth these last words with her. It’s a bit of a Sunday morning ritual.
When she clumps off to the bathroom to take the hot rollers out of her hair, I make my way to the edge of the bed. Why can’t I praise Jesus from here? I’d make a much more joyful noise from under my blanket. Instead of “Holly Springs Baptist Church” I’ll go to “Box Springs Baptist Church.” I smile to myself, wondering how I’ll work that in on Momma. She just hates when I make jokes about the church.
I walk down the hall to the kitchen. After pouring a glass of chocolate milk, I head to the living room to see how Daddy’s lesson is coming. Daddy’s the Sunday School teacher for the “Single, Separated or Divorced Young Men’s” class. He always waits until the last minute to do his lessons. He says that God works best with a deadline which explains why He created the universe in six days.
“Mornin’, Daddy.”
“Morning, Miss Prissy Britches. You sure got your Momma riled up this morning.”
“Yeah, I thought for a minute she had the Holy Ghost in her. What’s your lesson about?”
“The fruits of the Spirit.”
“Sounds tasty.”
“Now, Beth, don’t sass about the Good Book.”
“Sorry. So which one are you on this week?”
“One of the hard ones—patience.”
“Can Momma sit in on your class?”
“Very funny. Now go get ready. And hurry, I can’t be late.”
I walk back down the hall to the bathroom, finishing my chocolate milk along the way and trying to decide what I should wear. I don’t understand why I have to dress up. Momma says that we should give our best to God and that includes our appearance. I figure Jesus wore tunics and sandals, so He probably doesn’t care if I wear pantyhose or not.
“Beth, why aren’t you in the shower?”
Momma appears in front of me. She’s in her slip and has a toothbrush in one hand and my little brother’s clothes in the other. Half of her hair is still in curlers.
“I’m headed that way, Momma. I was thirsty.”
“Well, you should have thought of that when you were layin’ in bed.”
“I’m sorry, Momma. It’s early.”
“I’ve been up since 5:30 working on costumes for the children’s choir, don’t talk to me about early,” she says, walking away. “Now hurry, I’ll need help getting your little brother dressed.”
“Why doesn’t Daddy help get him dressed?”
Momma spins on her heel and takes a deep breath. I know I’ve hit a sore spot with her.
“Because your Daddy is too busy drinking his coffee and doing his Sunday School lesson. Now go!”
I grab a towel from the closet and head toward the bathroom. I turn the water on in the shower and wait for it to heat up.
And I wait. And wait. After a good three minutes I turn the water off.
“Momma!”
I stand and wait, determined she will have to come to me.
“MOMMA!”
The door of the bathroom flies open.
“What, Bethany, what?”
“There ain’t any hot water.”
“Well, that’s what you get when you’re the last one up.”
“But I can’t take a cold shower. It’s 40 degrees outside.”
“Bethany, you have 20 minutes. Figure something out.”
And off she goes, leaving me standing there in nothing but a shower cap.
I wrap a towel around me and walk to the sink where I proceed to take what my grandmother would call a “whore’s bath.” I can at least handle the cold water on one part of me at a time.
I peel off the shower cap and brush out my hair, scanning the counter for a scrunchie. Today will definitely be a ponytail day. Jesus will just have to deal with it.
I flip my head over and use a blow dryer to fluff it up. As I stand up straight and turn the dryer off, I hear Momma’s voice from across the house.
“…help me do something this wouldn’t happen!”
“Are you saying that I shouldn’t prepare my Sunday School lesson?”
“I’m just saying that I can’t get the kids ready and me ready, too!”
“Well that’s your job so you’re just going to have to find a way to do it!”
I tiptoe down the hall. Momma and Daddy are standing in the kitchen. He has his coat on and is waving his Bible in the air at Momma.
“Just go on to church without us. We’ll be there after while.”
“That will look really good, Barbara, us coming separate to church. You already missed last Sunday!”
“Just tell everybody that the baby threw up or something. We’ll be there later.”
“So you want me to lie?”
“Fine, Glen, then tell them you’re a selfish jackass who won’t help me do anything!”
My parents usually get along pretty well. There’s something about Sunday morning, though, that brings out the worst in all of us. This morning is no exception.
I hurry back to my room before I get pulled into the argument or yelled at for not getting ready. I rummage through my closet in an attempt to find something to wear and listen to my father slam the front door.
After going through every possible piece of clothing in my closet, I stick my head out the door and holler down the hall.
“Momma, have you seen my denim skirt?”
No answer.
“Momma?”
“I heard you. It’s in the dirty clothes.”
“Why didn’t you wash it?”
“Bethany, I’m behind on laundry.”
“But I need it.”
“Then you should have washed it yourself!”
I hear a tone in her voice that makes me decide not to push the issue. Why, why, why don’t I have more church clothes? Why do I spend all of my allowance on cool clothes and tennis shoes? I accept that I will have to wear what I wore on the previous Sunday and say a silent prayer that no one notices.
After hopping around my room doing the pantyhose dance, I pull on my dress and slip my feet into a pair of black flats. I sit down at my vanity and start putting on my makeup. At least something is will look good today.
No sooner than I have my foundation on than Momma is standing in my doorway.
“I need help with Jed. He hasn’t had breakfast yet.”
“But Momma, I’m not ready.”
“Bethany, we are already late as it is. I cannot tolerate your whining right now. You can do your makeup in the hand-mirror while he eats.”
I sigh and grab my cosmetic bag. In the kitchen, Jed is throwing a ball against the refrigerator.
“Jed, can you not do that this morning?”
“Befaneeee.”
“Yes, I’m Bethany. We’ve established that. Now, do you want Cheerios or Rice Krispies?”
“Befanneeeeeeee.”
“What Jed? I’m right here. What?”
“I gotta go to potty.”
“Now?”
He nods and smiles, sheepishly.
I begin to undress him, wondering why in the world mom dressed him in a one-piece. As I try to work his little legs out of his sailor suit, the floor around him grows wet, and he begins to wail.
“I sorry, Beffie. I sorry.”
I can feel it welling up in my throat—the urge to scream “Momma” and let her deal with it. But I don’t. I’ve seen my mother at the proverbial wits end, and I know she’s headed toward the edge this morning.
“Stay here, buddy, okay? I’ll be back in a minute. I’m going to get you some clothes.”
I jog to my parents’ bedroom. My mother, still in her slip, is standing in her closet, leaning face first into the clothes.
“Momma?”
“Mmmm.”
“Um, Jed spilled grape juice all over himself. Does he have anything else to wear?”
“Wh grjus?”
“I’m sorry, I can’t hear you.”
She leans back from the clothes.
“Why grape juice?”
“He wanted it. But don’t worry, I’m gonna change him and I’ll be ready to go soon.”
I leave the room before she can protest. I grab a little pantsuit out of Jed’s bureau and a towel from the linen closet in the hall.
Thankfully, Jed is still sitting where I left him. After drying and dressing Jed, as well as cleaning the floor, I grab my cosmetic bag head back to my room to finish getting ready.
Momma is sitting at my vanity, looking in the mirror. She doesn’t seem to realize I’m in the room.
“Momma, are you okay?”
“Yes, honey, I just needed to sit down for a minute.”
I walk over to her. I’m not sure what to say. She’s always so in control, handling fourteen things at once. Suddenly she looks very tired—and very old.
“Is something the matter?”
“I just remembered that we’re having a potluck after church today, and I forgot to make anything.”
With her final two words, her voice breaks. Tears stream down her cheek, carrying her liquid eyeliner with them. I have no idea what to do except to put my arms around her. She sobs into my chest.
“It’s okay, Momma. Look, Jed’s ready to go, and I can do my makeup in the car. We’ll stop at the store and grab a cake or something. It’s no big deal. I’ll even sneak it in so no one will think you forgot to cook something.”
Momma stops crying and looks me in the eye. It’s a look I haven’t seen before, almost like she doesn’t know me. It only lasts for a second, though, and pats my arm and stands up.
“Where’s your brother?”
“He’s in the den.”
“Let’s get a move on then. We’re going to miss Sunday School, but we can’t be late for preaching.”
She heads to my door, leaving me a bit stunned. Before she crosses the threshold, she turns around and looks at me.
“You know, Bethany, you’re starting to turn into a young woman.”
And then she’s gone.
Our last 15 minutes in the house are a whirlwind. Momma disappears to her bathroom. I finish slathering on my makeup and smooth out my ponytail. I even dig out a pair little pearl earrings from my jewelry box. Something extra for the Lord—and Momma.
Momma emerges from the bathroom, somehow completely pulled together. Even her eyeliner is straight. She grabs her purse and our Bibles, and I grab Jed. She locks up as I buckle him into the car seat.
Twenty minutes later, we are pulling into the Holly Springs parking lot, a day-old Sock It To Me cake in my lap. Momma parks and runs Jed to the nursery while I sneak the cake into the fellowship hall as I promised.
Soon, we are standing at the sanctuary doors. The usher hands me a church bulletin and shakes Momma’s hand. Momma and I make our way to our pew up front. Daddy is already sitting there. I pray that he doesn’t say anything mean to Momma.
“Everything okay, Barb?” he says, a smile plastered to his face.
“Yes, we’re just fine,” Momma replies, returning the smile.
“Did you bring something for the potluck?”
“Yes, Glen, I did.”
“Good, I figured you’d forget.”
I halfway expect Momma to pick up a hymnal and smack Daddy. I even want to smack him. She doesn’t, though. She just keeps smiling and turns to Sister Patterson, sitting in the pew behind us.
“Maylene, I just love your hat.”
“Bless you, Barbara, you’re the sweetest thing.”
“Oh, no, there’s nothing sweeter than a Sunday morning.”
As the preacher takes the pulpit, I watch my mother out of the corner of my eye. Hair in place and a smile on her face, living proof that God must exist.
I roll my back to her and let out a combination snort and grunt.
“Young lady, I am not kidding. You are gonna make us all late again. Don’t make me get your daddy in here.”
I flip my pillow to the cool side and pull my quilt further up over my head. Like Daddy’s gonna do anything. He’s sitting in the den, drinking coffee and getting his Sunday School lesson ready.
Momma knows I’ve called her bluff.
“Now why are you going to make me act all un-Christian on Sunday? Why can’t we just have a nice, normal Sunday and go to church without a big fuss?”
From under my quilt I answer, “I don’t know, Momma, you tell me. You’re the one doing all the screaming.”
No sooner are the words out of my mouth than I know what is about to happen. In one swoop, my sheet and quilt are in the floor and Momma has jerked my pillow from underneath my head. I try to brace myself, but it’s too late. Morning has arrived and it’s cold and bright and loud in only the way Momma can make it.
“Now, smart-mouth, we are leaving in half an hour. I want you showered and dressed and presentable. You have new pantyhose in your dresser. And pin your hair back out of your face. You’re going to the Lord’s house.”
I mouth these last words with her. It’s a bit of a Sunday morning ritual.
When she clumps off to the bathroom to take the hot rollers out of her hair, I make my way to the edge of the bed. Why can’t I praise Jesus from here? I’d make a much more joyful noise from under my blanket. Instead of “Holly Springs Baptist Church” I’ll go to “Box Springs Baptist Church.” I smile to myself, wondering how I’ll work that in on Momma. She just hates when I make jokes about the church.
I walk down the hall to the kitchen. After pouring a glass of chocolate milk, I head to the living room to see how Daddy’s lesson is coming. Daddy’s the Sunday School teacher for the “Single, Separated or Divorced Young Men’s” class. He always waits until the last minute to do his lessons. He says that God works best with a deadline which explains why He created the universe in six days.
“Mornin’, Daddy.”
“Morning, Miss Prissy Britches. You sure got your Momma riled up this morning.”
“Yeah, I thought for a minute she had the Holy Ghost in her. What’s your lesson about?”
“The fruits of the Spirit.”
“Sounds tasty.”
“Now, Beth, don’t sass about the Good Book.”
“Sorry. So which one are you on this week?”
“One of the hard ones—patience.”
“Can Momma sit in on your class?”
“Very funny. Now go get ready. And hurry, I can’t be late.”
I walk back down the hall to the bathroom, finishing my chocolate milk along the way and trying to decide what I should wear. I don’t understand why I have to dress up. Momma says that we should give our best to God and that includes our appearance. I figure Jesus wore tunics and sandals, so He probably doesn’t care if I wear pantyhose or not.
“Beth, why aren’t you in the shower?”
Momma appears in front of me. She’s in her slip and has a toothbrush in one hand and my little brother’s clothes in the other. Half of her hair is still in curlers.
“I’m headed that way, Momma. I was thirsty.”
“Well, you should have thought of that when you were layin’ in bed.”
“I’m sorry, Momma. It’s early.”
“I’ve been up since 5:30 working on costumes for the children’s choir, don’t talk to me about early,” she says, walking away. “Now hurry, I’ll need help getting your little brother dressed.”
“Why doesn’t Daddy help get him dressed?”
Momma spins on her heel and takes a deep breath. I know I’ve hit a sore spot with her.
“Because your Daddy is too busy drinking his coffee and doing his Sunday School lesson. Now go!”
I grab a towel from the closet and head toward the bathroom. I turn the water on in the shower and wait for it to heat up.
And I wait. And wait. After a good three minutes I turn the water off.
“Momma!”
I stand and wait, determined she will have to come to me.
“MOMMA!”
The door of the bathroom flies open.
“What, Bethany, what?”
“There ain’t any hot water.”
“Well, that’s what you get when you’re the last one up.”
“But I can’t take a cold shower. It’s 40 degrees outside.”
“Bethany, you have 20 minutes. Figure something out.”
And off she goes, leaving me standing there in nothing but a shower cap.
I wrap a towel around me and walk to the sink where I proceed to take what my grandmother would call a “whore’s bath.” I can at least handle the cold water on one part of me at a time.
I peel off the shower cap and brush out my hair, scanning the counter for a scrunchie. Today will definitely be a ponytail day. Jesus will just have to deal with it.
I flip my head over and use a blow dryer to fluff it up. As I stand up straight and turn the dryer off, I hear Momma’s voice from across the house.
“…help me do something this wouldn’t happen!”
“Are you saying that I shouldn’t prepare my Sunday School lesson?”
“I’m just saying that I can’t get the kids ready and me ready, too!”
“Well that’s your job so you’re just going to have to find a way to do it!”
I tiptoe down the hall. Momma and Daddy are standing in the kitchen. He has his coat on and is waving his Bible in the air at Momma.
“Just go on to church without us. We’ll be there after while.”
“That will look really good, Barbara, us coming separate to church. You already missed last Sunday!”
“Just tell everybody that the baby threw up or something. We’ll be there later.”
“So you want me to lie?”
“Fine, Glen, then tell them you’re a selfish jackass who won’t help me do anything!”
My parents usually get along pretty well. There’s something about Sunday morning, though, that brings out the worst in all of us. This morning is no exception.
I hurry back to my room before I get pulled into the argument or yelled at for not getting ready. I rummage through my closet in an attempt to find something to wear and listen to my father slam the front door.
After going through every possible piece of clothing in my closet, I stick my head out the door and holler down the hall.
“Momma, have you seen my denim skirt?”
No answer.
“Momma?”
“I heard you. It’s in the dirty clothes.”
“Why didn’t you wash it?”
“Bethany, I’m behind on laundry.”
“But I need it.”
“Then you should have washed it yourself!”
I hear a tone in her voice that makes me decide not to push the issue. Why, why, why don’t I have more church clothes? Why do I spend all of my allowance on cool clothes and tennis shoes? I accept that I will have to wear what I wore on the previous Sunday and say a silent prayer that no one notices.
After hopping around my room doing the pantyhose dance, I pull on my dress and slip my feet into a pair of black flats. I sit down at my vanity and start putting on my makeup. At least something is will look good today.
No sooner than I have my foundation on than Momma is standing in my doorway.
“I need help with Jed. He hasn’t had breakfast yet.”
“But Momma, I’m not ready.”
“Bethany, we are already late as it is. I cannot tolerate your whining right now. You can do your makeup in the hand-mirror while he eats.”
I sigh and grab my cosmetic bag. In the kitchen, Jed is throwing a ball against the refrigerator.
“Jed, can you not do that this morning?”
“Befaneeee.”
“Yes, I’m Bethany. We’ve established that. Now, do you want Cheerios or Rice Krispies?”
“Befanneeeeeeee.”
“What Jed? I’m right here. What?”
“I gotta go to potty.”
“Now?”
He nods and smiles, sheepishly.
I begin to undress him, wondering why in the world mom dressed him in a one-piece. As I try to work his little legs out of his sailor suit, the floor around him grows wet, and he begins to wail.
“I sorry, Beffie. I sorry.”
I can feel it welling up in my throat—the urge to scream “Momma” and let her deal with it. But I don’t. I’ve seen my mother at the proverbial wits end, and I know she’s headed toward the edge this morning.
“Stay here, buddy, okay? I’ll be back in a minute. I’m going to get you some clothes.”
I jog to my parents’ bedroom. My mother, still in her slip, is standing in her closet, leaning face first into the clothes.
“Momma?”
“Mmmm.”
“Um, Jed spilled grape juice all over himself. Does he have anything else to wear?”
“Wh grjus?”
“I’m sorry, I can’t hear you.”
She leans back from the clothes.
“Why grape juice?”
“He wanted it. But don’t worry, I’m gonna change him and I’ll be ready to go soon.”
I leave the room before she can protest. I grab a little pantsuit out of Jed’s bureau and a towel from the linen closet in the hall.
Thankfully, Jed is still sitting where I left him. After drying and dressing Jed, as well as cleaning the floor, I grab my cosmetic bag head back to my room to finish getting ready.
Momma is sitting at my vanity, looking in the mirror. She doesn’t seem to realize I’m in the room.
“Momma, are you okay?”
“Yes, honey, I just needed to sit down for a minute.”
I walk over to her. I’m not sure what to say. She’s always so in control, handling fourteen things at once. Suddenly she looks very tired—and very old.
“Is something the matter?”
“I just remembered that we’re having a potluck after church today, and I forgot to make anything.”
With her final two words, her voice breaks. Tears stream down her cheek, carrying her liquid eyeliner with them. I have no idea what to do except to put my arms around her. She sobs into my chest.
“It’s okay, Momma. Look, Jed’s ready to go, and I can do my makeup in the car. We’ll stop at the store and grab a cake or something. It’s no big deal. I’ll even sneak it in so no one will think you forgot to cook something.”
Momma stops crying and looks me in the eye. It’s a look I haven’t seen before, almost like she doesn’t know me. It only lasts for a second, though, and pats my arm and stands up.
“Where’s your brother?”
“He’s in the den.”
“Let’s get a move on then. We’re going to miss Sunday School, but we can’t be late for preaching.”
She heads to my door, leaving me a bit stunned. Before she crosses the threshold, she turns around and looks at me.
“You know, Bethany, you’re starting to turn into a young woman.”
And then she’s gone.
Our last 15 minutes in the house are a whirlwind. Momma disappears to her bathroom. I finish slathering on my makeup and smooth out my ponytail. I even dig out a pair little pearl earrings from my jewelry box. Something extra for the Lord—and Momma.
Momma emerges from the bathroom, somehow completely pulled together. Even her eyeliner is straight. She grabs her purse and our Bibles, and I grab Jed. She locks up as I buckle him into the car seat.
Twenty minutes later, we are pulling into the Holly Springs parking lot, a day-old Sock It To Me cake in my lap. Momma parks and runs Jed to the nursery while I sneak the cake into the fellowship hall as I promised.
Soon, we are standing at the sanctuary doors. The usher hands me a church bulletin and shakes Momma’s hand. Momma and I make our way to our pew up front. Daddy is already sitting there. I pray that he doesn’t say anything mean to Momma.
“Everything okay, Barb?” he says, a smile plastered to his face.
“Yes, we’re just fine,” Momma replies, returning the smile.
“Did you bring something for the potluck?”
“Yes, Glen, I did.”
“Good, I figured you’d forget.”
I halfway expect Momma to pick up a hymnal and smack Daddy. I even want to smack him. She doesn’t, though. She just keeps smiling and turns to Sister Patterson, sitting in the pew behind us.
“Maylene, I just love your hat.”
“Bless you, Barbara, you’re the sweetest thing.”
“Oh, no, there’s nothing sweeter than a Sunday morning.”
As the preacher takes the pulpit, I watch my mother out of the corner of my eye. Hair in place and a smile on her face, living proof that God must exist.
Recycling - December 28, 2005
I'm digging through my old Myspace blog and recycling posts from as far back as 2005.
Howard
Howard opened the menu and nervously scanned the selections. It was his first date in over three years and thus far was going very well. When he showed up at her front door, she hadn’t seemed taken aback by his size, an admirable start to a blind date with Howard. Now they were sitting at a table in Trattoria La Strada, one of Howard’s favorite restaurants. He felt his stomach growl as he studied the menu. Petto Di Pollo Alla Parmigiana. Bistecca Alla Fiorentina. Filetto Al Chianti. Even rolling the beautiful words around in his mouth made him salivate. He had to make a good first impression, though. It had to appear that he was at least attempting to lose weight. Suddenly, the waiter was standing beside the table with their wine.
“Are you both ready to order now?” he politely asked.
Howard looked to his date. She was nodding, so he quickly made his decision.
“I’ll have the Insalata Di Pere Al Curry, please.”
A salad. Light and healthy. Besides, he could stop at Burger King on the way home if necessary. The waiter took his menu and turned to Howard’s date.
“And for you, Signora?”
“Yes, I’d like the Costolette Al Rosmarino, please.”
After the waiter returned to the kitchen, Howard nervously began a conversation with his date. She wasn’t necessarily an attractive girl, but she was charming. An alum of Sarah Lawrence, she had moved West with the Teach for America Program. She told him horror stories about teaching at an inner-city high school, though he never detected a note of bitterness or fear in her voice.
Within twenty minutes, their food had arrived. Howard tried to act excited about his salad. When he saw his date’s plate, though, his tongue flickered at his lips. Huge lamb chops smothered in olive oil and rosemary. He couldn’t stop staring at her plate. Howard’s date became uncomfortable, interpreting his staring as a reflection on her.
“I don’t usually eat this much. I missed lunch today, though, because I was tutoring.”
Howard assured her that it was okay, that he liked a girl who didn’t eat like a bird. The whole time he spoke, though, his eyes never left the magnificent mutton in front of her. She pretended she didn’t notice and picked up her fork.
“Buon appetite,” she said and began cutting into the lamb chops.
Howard picked up his fork and stabbed at a pear and a few sun-dried tomatoes. Why had he ordered a salad? He could have at least ordered pasta. At least the carbs would somewhat satisfy his aching stomach. The combination of meat and spices floating over to his side of the table made Howard’s head hurt. He could imagine his teeth tearing into the juicy meet, the marinade saturating his taste buds. He wondered if he could get his date away from the table long enough to sneak a few bites.
But how to make her leave? Was there something she’d left in the car? Could he make her have to use the bathroom? Maybe he could tell her about his trip to Niagara Falls or the time he went white water rafting. What if he spilled some pepper and accidentally blew it her way. Surely she’d begin sneezing and have to leave the table for a moment. Better yet, he could spill wine on her. The bread basket was sitting beside her glass; it would look like a total accident.
Howard just had to have a bit or two of what she was eating. He could make her mad. He could say something mean and make her storm out of the restaurant. He was paying for the meal anyway, and it’s not like he had feelings for her yet. Sure, she’d been nice so far and seemed to genuinely be interested, but how long could that last? He’d have to eat in front of her or take his clothes off at some point, anyway, after which she’d put her tail between her legs and run. How would he do it? Make fun of her? Say something rude or hateful? He looked at his date, chattering away about some poem a mentally-challenged student had written. No, he couldn’t hurt her. He’d have to do better than that.
Then it hit him. He’d make her lose her appetite. He’d burp or fart or pick his nose. He’d cough without covering his mouth. He’d clean out his ears at the table. He’d sneeze and snort and maybe even spit in his napkin. It would have to work. No woman would sit at a table and continue eating with such an uncouth dinner companion.
Howard began straining, deciding to open his performance by breaking wind. He could feel his skin becoming flushed.
“Howard, are you okay?”
He told her he was fine and speared another piece of greens as he told himself that in a few moments he could ditch the salad and consume what was left of the lamb chops. He chewed heartily as he felt the pressure welling up inside, the gas making its way toward the seat of his pants. His date continued to talk, something now about a concert this Tuesday and needing someone to go with her. Howard couldn’t listen, though. All of his concentration was focused on getting her to leave the table and hopefully the restaurant.
“You know, Howard, I feel terrible. I ordered all of this food and just can’t eat anymore. Please take this other lamb chop and finish it. I don’t want it to go to waste, and I don’t like leftovers.”
Through the straining and pushing, Howard heard enough of what she said to piece together the meaning. He focused his eyes on her, slowly relaxing his body. Howard looked at his date and looked at the pork chop, lingering on the latter for several seconds longer. Through clenched teeth he attempted to protest.
“No, I couldn’t, I have my salad—“
“No, really, there’s no need for it to go to waste. It’s delicious. And, um, I noticed your greens look a little brown. Wouldn’t you rather eat this?”
Howard looked away from the lamb chops long enough to inspect his salad. Not a spot of brown anywhere. He looked back at his date and gave her an inquisitive look. She pushed her plate across the table.
“Really, Howard, it’s okay. I mean it.”
Howard looked his date in the eyes and smiled. She smiled back and patted his hand, wondering aloud if it would be possible to get ice cream after dinner.
As Howard chewed his first bite, he wondered if this was love.
Howard
Howard opened the menu and nervously scanned the selections. It was his first date in over three years and thus far was going very well. When he showed up at her front door, she hadn’t seemed taken aback by his size, an admirable start to a blind date with Howard. Now they were sitting at a table in Trattoria La Strada, one of Howard’s favorite restaurants. He felt his stomach growl as he studied the menu. Petto Di Pollo Alla Parmigiana. Bistecca Alla Fiorentina. Filetto Al Chianti. Even rolling the beautiful words around in his mouth made him salivate. He had to make a good first impression, though. It had to appear that he was at least attempting to lose weight. Suddenly, the waiter was standing beside the table with their wine.
“Are you both ready to order now?” he politely asked.
Howard looked to his date. She was nodding, so he quickly made his decision.
“I’ll have the Insalata Di Pere Al Curry, please.”
A salad. Light and healthy. Besides, he could stop at Burger King on the way home if necessary. The waiter took his menu and turned to Howard’s date.
“And for you, Signora?”
“Yes, I’d like the Costolette Al Rosmarino, please.”
After the waiter returned to the kitchen, Howard nervously began a conversation with his date. She wasn’t necessarily an attractive girl, but she was charming. An alum of Sarah Lawrence, she had moved West with the Teach for America Program. She told him horror stories about teaching at an inner-city high school, though he never detected a note of bitterness or fear in her voice.
Within twenty minutes, their food had arrived. Howard tried to act excited about his salad. When he saw his date’s plate, though, his tongue flickered at his lips. Huge lamb chops smothered in olive oil and rosemary. He couldn’t stop staring at her plate. Howard’s date became uncomfortable, interpreting his staring as a reflection on her.
“I don’t usually eat this much. I missed lunch today, though, because I was tutoring.”
Howard assured her that it was okay, that he liked a girl who didn’t eat like a bird. The whole time he spoke, though, his eyes never left the magnificent mutton in front of her. She pretended she didn’t notice and picked up her fork.
“Buon appetite,” she said and began cutting into the lamb chops.
Howard picked up his fork and stabbed at a pear and a few sun-dried tomatoes. Why had he ordered a salad? He could have at least ordered pasta. At least the carbs would somewhat satisfy his aching stomach. The combination of meat and spices floating over to his side of the table made Howard’s head hurt. He could imagine his teeth tearing into the juicy meet, the marinade saturating his taste buds. He wondered if he could get his date away from the table long enough to sneak a few bites.
But how to make her leave? Was there something she’d left in the car? Could he make her have to use the bathroom? Maybe he could tell her about his trip to Niagara Falls or the time he went white water rafting. What if he spilled some pepper and accidentally blew it her way. Surely she’d begin sneezing and have to leave the table for a moment. Better yet, he could spill wine on her. The bread basket was sitting beside her glass; it would look like a total accident.
Howard just had to have a bit or two of what she was eating. He could make her mad. He could say something mean and make her storm out of the restaurant. He was paying for the meal anyway, and it’s not like he had feelings for her yet. Sure, she’d been nice so far and seemed to genuinely be interested, but how long could that last? He’d have to eat in front of her or take his clothes off at some point, anyway, after which she’d put her tail between her legs and run. How would he do it? Make fun of her? Say something rude or hateful? He looked at his date, chattering away about some poem a mentally-challenged student had written. No, he couldn’t hurt her. He’d have to do better than that.
Then it hit him. He’d make her lose her appetite. He’d burp or fart or pick his nose. He’d cough without covering his mouth. He’d clean out his ears at the table. He’d sneeze and snort and maybe even spit in his napkin. It would have to work. No woman would sit at a table and continue eating with such an uncouth dinner companion.
Howard began straining, deciding to open his performance by breaking wind. He could feel his skin becoming flushed.
“Howard, are you okay?”
He told her he was fine and speared another piece of greens as he told himself that in a few moments he could ditch the salad and consume what was left of the lamb chops. He chewed heartily as he felt the pressure welling up inside, the gas making its way toward the seat of his pants. His date continued to talk, something now about a concert this Tuesday and needing someone to go with her. Howard couldn’t listen, though. All of his concentration was focused on getting her to leave the table and hopefully the restaurant.
“You know, Howard, I feel terrible. I ordered all of this food and just can’t eat anymore. Please take this other lamb chop and finish it. I don’t want it to go to waste, and I don’t like leftovers.”
Through the straining and pushing, Howard heard enough of what she said to piece together the meaning. He focused his eyes on her, slowly relaxing his body. Howard looked at his date and looked at the pork chop, lingering on the latter for several seconds longer. Through clenched teeth he attempted to protest.
“No, I couldn’t, I have my salad—“
“No, really, there’s no need for it to go to waste. It’s delicious. And, um, I noticed your greens look a little brown. Wouldn’t you rather eat this?”
Howard looked away from the lamb chops long enough to inspect his salad. Not a spot of brown anywhere. He looked back at his date and gave her an inquisitive look. She pushed her plate across the table.
“Really, Howard, it’s okay. I mean it.”
Howard looked his date in the eyes and smiled. She smiled back and patted his hand, wondering aloud if it would be possible to get ice cream after dinner.
As Howard chewed his first bite, he wondered if this was love.
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